


The Bard Who Chased a White Wolf

by The Space Bard (GraceJordan)



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:26:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 54,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23094028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GraceJordan/pseuds/The%20Space%20Bard
Summary: Jaskier is a man much more than he seems, ambling through the world trying to find something that makes him feel aliveBut then he meets a Witcher who is too interesting to ignore(Teen but does include F- words; I was a teen once, try to tell me they don't drop that word everywhere)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 96
Kudos: 340





	1. A Hundred Years of Boredom, Over

He wasn’t sure if he remembered his first name anymore. 

While he was pretty sure it was something noble and pretentious, it’d been so long since he used it that, standing here in this tavern, he realized he didn’t know what it was anymore. 

Clear as day, he remembered who he used to be and the things he did, all of which he never wanted to do again. It was like a vibrant nightmare that he couldn’t get out of his fucking head. Reminded him every day that he never wanted to be that person again. 

But that name? It was gone, like time had erased it from his memory entirely. 

Guess he truly was stuck with Jaskier, or whatever other names he made up for himself. There wasn’t a name to go back to anymore. 

Granted, he might have to pick up a new name soon. This whole mischievous bard thing wasn’t working out that well for him. Despite learning how to sing in tune and even play the lute, people didn’t always seem to enjoy his songs. He enjoyed composing them, and felt like a light, idiotic, much funner to be around young man whenever he sang them. He liked being Jaskier, the rogue bard. 

Not everyone else liked it so much, though. The man sitting at the table next to him was still giving him this look like he just caught Jaskier sticking a dick in his prized pig. 

Sometimes it was almost like the common folk didn’t find a man older than a century relatable at all. 

That, or his dark humor was just a bit too bitter for them. 

Jaskier had thought his abortion joke was hilarious, but clearly the people throwing rolls at him thought otherwise. Their loss, honestly. This tavern served pretty damn good rolls. 

The only person not jeering was this man in the back corner, who barely even looked up from his own drink because he was too busy being a brooding stranger from a sex novel. And honestly, Jaskier found that fascinating. Collecting all the tossed rolls (because who refused free food), he shoved them down his pants. Unfortunately, he’d been too impractical to buy ones with pockets. 

When you were as old as he was, new fashion styles can be alluring, even if they forwent basic practicalities like pockets or a belt. 

He’d have to have some pockets sewn in; he felt a little absurd having bread rolls tucked against his thigh. But that wouldn’t stop him from stepping closer to the mysterious, silent stranger with blades on his back. Dangerous, intriguing, and possibly handsome. Just his kind of irresistible mistake. 

After a few feet, Jaskier could identify that the man had a strong jawline and pure white hair. He wasn’t an old man, though; he looked like he was in his prime, padded muscles under his dark black gear and not a single wrinkle on his face. The only blemishes he had were a litany of scars that Jaskier could only imagine covered his entire body. He’d ask how far they went, but considering how delicate he was about his own scars, internal or external, he figured the warrior wouldn’t appreciate it. 

Also the fact the man was, indeed, ravishingly handsome upon further inspection helped make Jaskier a little less interested in prying and pissing him off. 

A few more steps and the bard was in front of his table, leaning against a post, staring down at him. Jaskier wasn’t sure if he just didn’t notice him or didn’t want to notice him, but that wasn’t enough to ruin his interest. After a couple hundred years, shame just isn’t something you care about. 

Taking a sip from a drink he took off a barmaid, Jaskier said, “I love the way you just.... sit in the corner and brood.” 

A pair of yellow eyes flicked up at him, unamused. Though they kinda made his skin prickle, like a rabbit meeting the eyes of a fox, the fact he wasn’t actually a rabbit helped keep him grounded. Since the eyes didn’t scare him off, the stranger groaned and said, “I’m here to drink alone.”

The longer he stared down at him, Jaskier realized he knew what that look meant, and not just the annoyance behind it. Those eyes weren’t just any eyes; they were the yellow glare of a Witcher, the most fearsome, monster-hunting mutants across the continent. He hadn’t met many in his time, but they all had their different flairs of brood and bite. Granted, he had to admit this was probably the first one that actually intimidated him in any way.

Back luck for the Witcher, that only made him all the more enchanted by his company. 

But he knew he had to play it cool, if he wanted to keep the conversation going. If there was one thing he knew about broad shouldered and white-haired types, it was that they didn’t appreciate talking about themselves. 

So, he stuck to what he was good at: talking about himself. 

Nodding, he moved to stand directly across from the man, making it harder for him to broodingly look away. No matter how “bad boy” handsome that was, he craved to actually interact with the most interesting person he’d met in weeks; maybe months. 

“Good. Yeah, good,” Jasker said. He just kept nodding, trying to look more like an absent-minded idiot than anything else. With a roll squishing into his more delicate areas while he sat down, Jaskier stomached the discomfort before continuing, “So, no one else hesitated to comment on my performance, except for you. C’mon. You don’t want to keep a man with... bread in his pants waiting. You must have some review for me. Three words or less.” 

Those yellow eyes flicked his way, but in such a slow, deliberate manner that it sent a chill down Jaskier’s spine. “They don’t exist.”

Considering all the bullshit he made up, he could be talking about most anything from his songs. But, Jaskier was curious what would make a Witcher roll his eyes like that. He asked, “What don’t exist?”

“The creatures in your song.” 

Jaskier frowned. He had to admit, that was a little disappointingly typical of an answer. At least from a monster-hunter, of all people. Of course he’d make an embellished mess out of every creature he mentioned, especially when these scaredy-cat townsfolk hadn’t seen anything like that in their entire lives. Jaskier could probably invent an entire new species and they wouldn’t bat an eye. 

However, there was still fun in the game of poking this tangled, ghost-haired ruffian’s buttons. With a smirk, Jaskier asked, “And how would you know?” 

But in seconds, he could see the man recoiling from him. His hand was moving to collect his blades and he had already tossed a few coins on the table for his pint. Well, seemed that poking wasn’t going to work. 

Jaskier figured that he might as well pull out all the stops of his knowledge and furrowed his brows like he just discovered something brilliant. Had to play the face right, to keep up the mask of him being less-worldly. If he played his cards right, maybe he’d catch the Witcher by surprise. “Ooh fun. White hair, big ol’ loner, two very, very scary looking swords. I know who you are.” He was totally pulling the next part out of his ass, but since he only knew a few monster hunters of this calibre, he took his best guess on which one it was. “You’re the Witcher, Geralt of Rivia.” When the man cut his eyes, growling at him, and started to evacuate the tavern, Jaskier felt a little disappointed. But at least he was right. That was consolation any day. 

Despite the fact Geralt wouldn’t even look back at him, he yelled, “Called it.” 

Jaskier was giggling the entire time the man stomped across the tavern, and even more when he slammed the door. Didn’t realize he was such an efficient Witcher repellant. Was goddamn worth it for such an amusing time talking with an interesting being. Most days, he would’ve been content by the end of the exchange, maybe write a song about Witchers being secretive, unfriendly gits, call it a win. 

But as he kept staring at the door, it was like the enjoyment bled out of his left foot. That, or the pressed rolls were starting to cut off circulation to his leg. He hoped they still tasted half as good after being pancaked between his thighs. 

Whether it was the bread’s fault or not, Jaskier was all too aware that he’d probably never see the Witcher again. Especially not if the man with that scowl had anything to do about it. 

Thinking back, he hadn’t been this amused in months, maybe years. And not only would a person like a Witcher be entertaining on his own, but his journeys would be pretty damn invigorating, too. 

He’d spent hundred of years as bankers, merchants, card players, courtiers, anything that kept him worlds away from the life he used to lead. But he deserved an adventure or two by now, didn’t he? 

With a scathing glance across the room, he looked at the snarling, piss drunk collection of cranky old men and exhausted young women trapped here in this town. This was not what he dreamed of when he chose to become someone new. Hell, he was trying to mix things up when he chose being a bard as his next life. He wanted to sing great songs about great stories, maybe to kings and queens, making balls filled with beautiful people go electric with his musical manipulation. 

Jaskier winced. That sounded a bit too much like the old days. 

Spending his time here, though, wasn’t getting him anywhere closer to doing something with his songs. Maybe this Geralt could be his shot of actually enjoying the bard life, having a great time as Jaskier. He’d been Jaskier for six years or so now, it was about time he found it fucking interesting. 

When he decided that, he got on the move. He stood up, weaved through the people, grabbed his lute. Geralt of Rivia would make being a bard fun or he would take up a new name and try something goddamn else. He was tired of living on bread scraps, trying to build a life like this. 

Upstairs, Jaskier collected everything in his room and didn’t even wait for the tavern-maid to pay him. It wasn’t like he needed it, with all the money he collected over the years. How else did he afford nice clothes making music for people who hated him in Upper Posada? 

Every step he took, it was like his soul was being cut free from the wretched attempt at being a basic, old, tavern bard. No, if he was going to do this thing and not want to lob his own head off with his lute strings, he needed to do it his own way. And after years of playing it safe, he wanted to see the world again. 

No one cared, seeing him leave with his pack. It was about as just of an exit as he expected. But just for good measure, he stood on a table and spoke to the patrons that insulted him for far too long. “Hello, horrible, miserable people of Upper Posada. I gleefully stand before you to tender my resignation to this damned tavern. Though Millie makes the best damn rolls on the continent, yeast will not keep me in this damned town one day more. I hope you all live long lives where you’re haunted by how much you hate yourselves, because I certainly do. Thank you for the free rolls, and if you want a delicious way to have your soul depart this wretched town, feel free to choke on one.” 

They all looked so stunned, even his harshest critic, who often said the kindest phrases like “abort yourself” or “wished you choke in the womb” or “your mother should’ve left you to die” (his insults were often limited), was speechless. 

Jaskier smirked. Yeah, that felt right. 

His head was high as he walked out of the tavern, feeling more invigorated than he’d felt singing make-believe diddies here these past year. He could even start pulling a tune together already, thinking about the handsome Witcher. “Witcher” would sound nice in a song, wouldn’t it?

But just then, someone grabbed his collar and pulled him around the corner, shoving him into the wall. “Saw you with the Witcher. Hope nabbing his friend will finally get the fucker’s attention.”

Jaskier blinked into the stone, pressed so close into it that he could see the flecked granules of the igneous rock. This wasn’t quite what he meant by craving something interesting. 

Before he could react, with a spell or any sort of retreat, he felt something crash against his skull and his body crumple to the alley-way ground. 

This thug was a goddamn idiot. The Witcher wouldn’t come for him; they weren’t friends. Jaskier wanted to forcibly accompany Geralt places, but they weren’t at that point yet. Right now, he was just some bard who pissed him off in a tavern. They were going to be sorely disappointed when no white-haired wolf appeared. Jaskier would have to weasel his way out of this asshole’s hostage situation all on his own.

Next life maybe he should just raze this entire town to the ground.

Who was he kidding? Fuck Upper Posada and fuck Geralt of Rivia. None of them were worth all this trouble, not when they didn’t care about him. 

Oh, and fuck being a bard. 

///


	2. Tybalt, The Sex Troll

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier doesn't like being kidnapped, period, but the smell...

Waking up in a dank cave wasn’t his worst “night out” disaster, nor was it the first time he ended an evening groggy and tied up. But by god, was the smell horrendous. If he knew less about cave trolls, he would’ve assumed that the man standing a few feet from him was one. Of all things, he certainly had the scent pinned down perfectly. 

But all it took was one serious once-over and it was very apparent that the man was, in fact, human. In a bizarre way, it was nice to see what his captor at least looked like. Pressed up against the barside bricks, all he knew was that he had a strong grip and his breath reeked of Mullet. Now, he could see the foul smells came with a full head of blonde hair, beady, but deep, black eyes, and some unsettlingly straight teeth. It was like a Drowner wearing the skin of a prince. That, or more likely, unfortunately good genes getting overrun by horrendous hygiene habits. 

The perma-scowl on his full lips was not helping in the slightest. 

This man wasn’t really paying attention to him at all, just pacing back and forth and staring at the mouth of the cave, like it held some great destiny for him. If Jaskier had to guess, he was an adventurer type, but not the friendly kind. This was the kind who treated quests like their next fix, wanting to conquer bigger and better monsters with each slash of their sword. 

Great. He was tied up like a hog, ass wet from cave muck, because some adrenaline junkie wanted to fight a Witcher. 

A Witcher that, mind him, probably would never come. Hell, what was he doing with that probably? He wouldn’t. Jaskier must’ve pissed him off enough to send him hauling ass out of town. Geralt could be halfway to Vengerberg for all he knew, maybe his type had magic fucking fast horses.

Point was, no one was going to get him out of this bullshit but him. 

First order of business, assess the situation. Prince Plague in front of him was a large, burly, mostly handsome man with quite veiny muscles. That meant he was likely dehydrated. He also was distracted, which worked to his advantage. He did have a huge spear, which didn’t aid Jaskier in dodge or reach. Any attempts to run would be dangerous, but perhaps necessary. 

Next, he wriggled as silently as he could in his binds. He almost snorted when he rubbed the ropes and got a sense of what he was working with. There were brothels that did better knots than this guy. All it would take was a few well-placed tugs and the binds would detangle and free him. At least that part was easy. 

It didn’t solve the muddy leather boots in front of him, though. There were no other weapons in reach and he definitely could get stabbed in the chest before he could do much choking damage with the ropes. And running was definitely a gamble based on too many unknown factors.

Well, it seemed it was time for reconnaissance. Flicking his hair out of his face and putting on his best, glimmering smile, Jaskier said, “If it’s not too much to ask, could you at least get the bread out of my pants?”

His long face turned over his shoulder (honestly surprised his chin cleared his shoulder) and his barely-there eyebrows furrowed, like two enchanted paintbrushes desperate to touch one another before they died. “The what?”

Jaskier tried to be as cute and amicable as possible; the one thing he did like a lot about his bard persona was being an affable, somewhat idiot. It worked surprisingly well in charming people, even though it was clear to anyone with half a brain that he was, in fact, an intelligent human.

Well. Mostly human. 

Scoffing, Jaskier used his head to gesture towards his once pristine breeches, now watted with mud. The man’s scowl deepened. Bold for a rank, disgusting blade addict to be looking at him with such an upturned nose. “You wouldn’t pass up free rolls either, cave troll, so don’t look at me like that.”

“I’m not touching your sodding pants.” He turned his face away, like that was the end of it.

Ha. Joke’s on him. Julian Alfred Pankrantz didn’t shut up so easily. 

“Your goddamn loss. I would’ve given you the rolls for free and my exquisite ass would have just been a bonus.” The entire time, Jaskier had been doing his best to scan the man’s body, try to find any weakness he could exploit. For now, he could at least poke at the one he already knew existed: this obsession with a certain Witcher. “So, what’s your plan if this Geralt doesn’t come?”

“He’ll come. You were the first person he talked to in weeks. Don’t try to act dumb; you mean something to him.”

Jaskier laughed and said, “Oh, I wish I was lying to you and was having a steamy, secret affair with tall, dark, and growling. But let’s both be honest here, if I was fucking that, I wouldn’t keep it a secret out of sheer pride.” The guy’s shoulders got tense, but Jaskier noticed that he started leaning more into his right leg. There might be something there. He had to keep talking. “But seriously--”

Pivoting with his right leg, still keeping pressure off the left, his captor shouted, “Shut up, will you? Or it’ll be your dead body getting Geralt here, not your stupid mouth.” Jaskier would’ve loved to laugh at the melodramatic corpse tucked in a skin suit, but he did also point the spear at Jaskier’s throat.

While he loved pushing anyone’s buttons, and this guy was pretty amusing to rattle, he figured that was enough toeing the line for now. “If you insist.”

The man turned back around and crossed his arms, still leaning into that right leg. This was the in. If Jaskier went low and to the left when he started running, he could destabilize this vagabond with a vendetta and get out of sight before he could ever catch up. It was a fair bet he couldn’t run very fast with that slight limp, either. He could do this. 

That, or get speared in the back while he ran the straight hallway of the cave. His captor’s arms didn’t seem like they had any problems with them.

Jaskier knew he’d hate himself if he gave in, but one deliberate, piercing stone through his skull and this could all be over. Quick, easy, maybe painless if he didn’t fuck up and give the handsome pile of rotting meat a lobotomy instead of a quick death. 

A few mutters and a flick of his wrist and back to being no one, nothing. 

Sure, he made his rules. But he preferred being a guilty prick needing penance than a dead one with morals. 

Fidgeting, Jaskier pulled at the ropes around his wrists. Thirty seconds later, he was free. Though he knew by the smell this man definitely didn’t attract anyone with working olfactory senses, it was so damn clear he hadn’t bothered to get good at bondage for criminal or pleasurable reasons. 

He could feel his breath hitch as he pulled his fingers free, scanning the floor for his best bludgeoning option. But he could feel the electricity at the mere thought of doing this sparking into his fingerprints, reminding him of the few memories of magic that he had left. 

It was like it was a desperate animal left to starve in a cage, begging to be let loose. Except no matter how long he ignored it, it never seemed to die. 

His heart started to sputter, stumble. Not because he wasn’t sure he could pull this off, but because he was sure he would. And Jaskier didn’t know where he’d go from there. 

Just as he was ready to pull his hands forward and toss an angular rock at his captor, someone came around the corner. White hair, teeth-baring scowl, and silver sword in tow. He’d be damned. It was Geralt, after all. 

That only made Jaskier’s already stammering heartbeat get clumsier. 

Yellow eyes trained on his captor, who now was grinning like a hungry wolf, Geralt growled, “Let him go, Tybalt. Hostages are too far.”

“Then why don’t you fight me for him? If I’m pushing your limits, you’ll just have to punish me for it.” Jaskier felt a chill run up his spine, the kind filled with dramatic intrigue. Wait a second, was this a sex thing? Looking “Tybalt” up and down, wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer. Guess addict wasn’t wrong, but he fucked up about what kind.

Geralt didn’t seem pleased, but shifted his grip on his sword as Tybalt charged towards him. “Dammit.” He parried off the spear’s blow, tried to push Tybalt away. But the absolutely ravenous idiot used the wall to throttle himself back towards the Witcher. 

Which propelled him straight into Geralt’s sword, running him through. 

Blinking, the Witcher retracted his sword and the man fell to the ground, sputtering blood. It only took a few seconds for him to stop twitching and have bled out. "Fuck." 

Jaskier wasn’t sure if he should be horrified or start cackling. He landed somewhere in between, with this breathy, dry laugh. Though he was laughing about the man on the damp cave floor, though, his eyes kept scanning the stubbled face of the Witcher standing above him. He remembered he was handsome, but there was definitely something about a life-saving murder that made someone grow a short term, attractive halo of light around them. 

He exhaled, trying to shut up his inappropriate laughter, and said, “Huh. I’ve never been proven wrong by a burly, brainless thug before.”

“What?” Geralt looked at him like he just walked in on something he didn’t want to get involved with. From what he’d seen so far, though, it seemed that probably happened to the Witcher a lot. 

“I told him that you wouldn’t come get me, nothing to stress about.” Glancing Geralt up and down another time, taking in all the buckles and armor and violence of it all, he wondered if this Witcher might’ve stood a chance against a witch he once knew. All of his interest in him was pretty whimsical, but there was something stronger here, on his knees before him. And not even in a dirty way, even though it couldn’t help but pop into his head. This was peak smut scenario if he ever saw one. Instead of jokingly saying, “How can I ever repay you, handsome man”, he was a little more practical: “Guess Witchers are more the hero type than I expected.”

“No, I’m not. I just don’t like people getting caught up in my business.” Getting on his haunches, Geralt leaned towards him. “Let me free you.”

Jaskier pulled his hands out from behind his back and wiggled his unencumbered fingers. “Oh. Right. I got that covered.”

Geralt peered at him and stood up, arms crossed. “Hmm.”

Realizing that looked a little suspicious, Jaskier grimaced and got off the ground. Holy hell, he didn’t realize how tall the other man was. Not that he was short, but... Made him wonder how many women made the joke that they were going to climb the man like a mountain.

Gesturing with his hands, Jaskier explained the “unbound” situation as well as he could without saying something that only made the conversation more awkward. Not the best time to have dirty novel ideas stuck in his head. “Before you got here, I was contemplating how to get out. Seemed from your majestic and very bloody display of combat, it wouldn’t have been hard. If I just stayed low, I could’ve definitely outrun the oaf.” Geralt untangled his terse arms, and Jaskier breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t feel like dying via Witcher anytime soon. He added, “Doesn’t make me less thankful, though. You made escaping much easier.”

“You’re welcome.” And then he started collecting things around the cave, like the spare rope and some provisions. 

Jaskier took this opportunity to grab his runsack that Tybalt hijacked for kidnapping purposes and loosened his pants to dump out the horrible crushed rolls. They were questionably edible when he left the tavern, but now they definitely were something hellish that smelled of sweat and ballsack. 

As he dug the final roll out, he asked, “Why did he want to kill you, anyway?”

“I beat him in a fist fight, once. He gets a little more extreme each time he asks for a rematch. He was decent before his fucking ego got in the way.” Jaskier tried not to snort. Sure, from that almost boner, ego was definitely the only reason this man stalked Geralt across the continent. No other reason at all.

“Oh how I don’t miss the throes of toxic masculinity.” He gave a chuckle, but then tossed a serious look at the bloody, curdling body of Tybalt, under a roll or two of his. “You want us to carry his body back to town or...?”

Leaning down to the dead man’s face, Geralt closed his dull, beady eyes and tore a necklace from around his neck. “He doesn’t even live here; he’s from Skellige. I’ll take this for his sister, though. Leave the rest for the wolves.” 

While Jaskier appreciated not carrying a body a mile to town, the thought of a man turning into canine snacks wasn’t too appetizing, either. Swallowing, his entire face frowned, from his forehead to his chin. “Lovely.”

Nodding, Geralt finally turned his eyes to Jaskier. “Don’t get kidnapped again.”

The bard snorted. “Wasn’t the plan.” The second the words left his lips, Geralt turned and started walking off, pool of blood on the front of his armor and everything. Jaskier ran after him and grabbed his arm. “Wait! You can’t possibly just leave like that. Think of all the monsters and rats you’ll attract. With all that blood, they’ll nibble half your pants off by the time you wake up. No matter how fun that might be for the locals, you should get washed up.” 

The Witcher glared at him, but didn’t seem to disagree. “I can wash in the river.”

“That is unsanitary and disgusting. You’re going to ruin some poor family’s laundry or bowel system.” Inhaling, Jaskier hoped he wouldn’t find this too forward. The Witcher was handsome, sure, but his ulterior motives had less to do with sex and more with trying to make Geralt like him. At least enough to let him tag along wherever he was going next. Especially since travelling with a Witcher made adventures ten times safer, clearly.

Jaskier offered, “I’ll pay for some rooms with a bath at the inn. My treat, for coming to my rescue.”

“I thought you worked at the tavern.”

“Ah yes, you missed that fun display. Shortly after you left, I stood on the table, called them miserable idiots, and quit. One of the best days of my life, honestly.”

Geralt flicked his yellow eyes down, in a judging manner that Jaskier didn’t quite appreciate. But he had to admit the odd color of those eyes was starting to grow on him. “You need a better life.”

Snorting, Jaskier was surprised to find himself agreeing. “Exactly.” Guess the Witcher had the capacity to be funny as well as murderous. Maybe he’d actually like this one as a person, not just as a spectacle to amuse him. 

When they got to the inn, Jaskier forked over some of the coin he had on hand. It was higher than the normal pricing, but the innkeeper (Duna) was Millie’s sister. He didn’t blame her for being a little bitter about his majestic performance earlier. Though, if it was up to him, she should be paying him for such a grand, hilarious exit. 

She brought them to a room with two beds and a large bath, which worked fine enough for their purposes. Better, even, for his. More time to wheedle his way into the Witcher’s heart. 

Jaskier dropped his bag on a bed and walked straight into the bathroom. 

Behind him, he heard Geralt do this growling groan. “I can bathe myself.”

“I would hope that a grown man could, but from the tangled disaster that is your hair, one can never be too sure.” He started the water pump, and was thankful that hot water was coming out. One thing to like about Upper Posada, Duna and Millie were great hosts. “Anyway, somebody needs to take your clothes while you get clean. I don’t even want to know how much blood is in every crevice of your body, but for trying to save me, I will make that noble sacrifice.”

Geralt didn’t seem to like anything he just said, at least from the way he kept scowling. But he didn’t argue, either. “Just get the water going.”

“Will do.” Jaskier kept an eye on the going pump while he pulled out some towels, soap, brushes, scrubbing tools, the like from the nearby drawers. He curiousity couldn’t help but ask, “When was the last time you took a bath, anyway? Or at least the last time soap has touched your body for a notable amount of time?” Sure, he didn’t smell as vile as Tybalt the sex-crazed kidnapper, but it still wasn’t great. 

After a few seconds of pause, Geralt answered, “A few towns over.”

Taking an elongated blink, Jaskier went back to watching the water. It was almost ready, and it had a perfect stack of towels and soap nearby. “Ah, so at least a week or two. Lovely. Explains those hellish tangles. Another reason for me to stay. A whole team of people could be useful to figure out this nest of knots.” 

He smirked, taking a more holistic look at the entire Witcher. Sure, he was a blood-covered murder machine. But he was also a lonely, handsome man. He was an outsider not by birth, but by creation. He could appreciate that. 

But Jaskier wasn’t enough of a sentimental idiot to say that out loud, so instead he said,“There’s a reason Witchers aren’t known for great parties and enchanting nobility, I suppose.”

“I suppose.”

“And yet you still manage to be handsome, under all of that. A true wonder.” With a simple raised eyebrow, Jaskier realized that maybe was something he shouldn’t say. Coughing, he shut the water off. The bath was steaming and ready to wash off any dirt, grime, or blood. Maybe he was biased to his own tastes, but he would fall for any ploy if someone drew him a personal bath. 

Walking up to Geralt, leaning against the wall, still stiff and so distant, Jaskier crossed his own arms. “Now, the water’s finished and everything else is in order, so without ado, Geralt of Rivia...” Winking, he gestured to Geralt’s black, bloody armor covering his entire body. Who knew what could be hiding out underneath. In a few seconds, he might find out. All the Witcher had to do was... “Strip.” 

///

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello folks! I know I missed a posting, but I had to take a short break to catch up on things, feel sane again, the like. I now will have a new schedule posting both my Mass Effect Shakarian romance (Drunk Punch Love) and this new Witcher story on Wednesdays and Saturdays. However, if you become a patron, you'll get to see each chapter a day early (and get access to my original stories, brainstorming blogs, access to my Discord, and other perks once my Twitch is up in April).
> 
> There I did it am I less awkward yet?
> 
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	3. Geralt in The Bathtub

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Jaskier is sort of being a manipulative bitch for his own gains, he and Geralt have a real conversation... while in the bathroom

Jaskier realized that he sounded like a horny slut when he said “strip”, but he thought it’d be funny. In retrospect, it wasn’t hilarious enough to overcome the awkwardness of it all. Worse, Geralt gave him a look like he might be the next thing skewered on those famous silver swords. But lucky for him, the Witcher just kicked him out to wash his clothes, “since he so graciously offered”.

Being downgraded to manservant was better than being dead, so he chose not to complain too much. He could pull the haughty noble shtick on him, but everyone hated the kind of guys that did that. And while hate wasn’t the worst emotion a person could fling his way, he was sort of trying to be likable here. 

And not sexy-musician-at-a-party likable. Real likable. It was harder than he expected. 

He grabbed a spare basin and went outside, kind enough not to just toss the gear in the local river for cleaning. With how diseased the nearby people already were, he really didn’t need to make the situation worse by bloodying the water supply. Throughout his laundry adventure, Jaskier was impressed how well-taken care of the worn leather was; especially considering how mangey the rest of Geralt seemed to be. 

When he came back, he was also surprised to find the bathroom door open and Geralt sitting in the water looking particularly pissed off. Gesturing to his knotted mane, he said, “My hair won't untangle.”

“Would you like help?” Even though he was the one who implied Jaskier should lend a hand, Geralt gave him this death glare that honestly ate through Jaskier’s eyelids. While his pride normally would mean he’d tell the Witcher to suck his left nut, he was a little too fascinated with the white nest of hair to say no. “Fine, fine, I’ll just do it.” 

Before he got close enough to actually sink his fingers into Geralt’s locks, those piercing yellow eyes decided to grab him by the throat. Jaskier wasn’t sure if he should stand still in terror or tell Geralt “harder”.

Everything about interacting with a ruggedly handsome man in a bathtub was wildly confusing. 

Geralt, clearly not having the same befuddled half-boner, said, “Tell me your name. It’s weird for a stranger to have his probably disgusting hands in my hair.”

Half-boner, dead. Jaskier recoiled his arms from the edge of the tub. “I’m mildly offended.”

“You were just washing my bloody gear, weren't you?”

Looking down at this man, covered in fascinating scars he daren’t ask about, Jaskier desperately wished he could remain a petulant, indignant asshole. But, he couldn’t. 

Against all logic, The Witcher had a point. 

“Fair.” He hadn’t expected Geralt’s reasoning to be as... reasonable that. It kinda threw off the “asshole, grumpy warrior man” persona he was building up in his head. It proved that there were actually very human parts hidden under all those rippling muscles. 

How boring. 

Sighing, Jaskier got on his knees and started detangling the course, thick hair with his fingers. If he didn’t know any better, from touch alone he’d assume it was from a horse. But while he stuck up his nose and wondered if Geralt’s hair had ever seen a droplet of softening soaps, he decided to placate the man’s mistrust. “My name is Jaskier. Local bard by trade, until today, but I sing and compose songs better than anyone else I know. Granted, I avoid other Bards so that’s always true.” Though he tried to cover it up, Geralt chuckled under his breath. Good. Even brooding couldn’t ruin the fact he was hilarious. Now, if he was lucky, Jaskier could get some quid pro quo. “Now give me a proper introduction, not the “mysterious Witcher” bullshit.”

“You already know the basics. Geralt of Rivia, Witcher, White Wolf, Butcher of Blaviken. General asshole killer of monsters. Whatever title you want.” 

Was he going crazy or was this white horse hair starting to feel... nice? Maybe the less tangled it was, the less it felt like it wanted to kill a human with its bare strands. Jaskier focused instead on Geralt’s stand-offish voice. It would be tragic if, because of hair detangling, he ended up thinking this walking adventure ticket was cute.

Handsome was obvious and acceptable. Adorable was a completely different game and much, much more dangerous. 

Jaskier asked, trying to distract his wayward brain, “Nothing else to you?”

“Absolutely nothing.” 

How unhelpful. “There’s always more to a person and you know that. But for now I’ll let you keep your dirty little secrets, no matter how enticing and delicious they sound.” Jaskier had to wonder, staring at the ivory strands in the palms of his hands, just how they ended up that way. He knew more than most, that Witchers were just children pushed to their limits until they mutated. However, the Witchers were fairly closed off about the processes themselves, and he was curious to know how some of them ended up looking like normal blokes and others ended up like this: white-haired beacons of their order. 

Geralt, blowing air out his nose like a dissatisfied bull, interrupted his musings. “You’re disgusting, you know.”

“It’s part of the bardic charm.” Jaskier couldn’t help but smile. Half the fun of playing out his shameless side was that he knew there was more. But it ruined the fun if he pointed that out to anyone else. 

Best to just be a cad and giggle while the masses hemmed and hawwed like pastors and nuns clutching at their religious idols.

Instead of challenging Geralt, he just hummed, satisfied with disgusting a man who just had guts stabbed through his sword. One would think he had other things to be more disgusted about. 

The Witcher seemed to enjoy interrupting his innermost thoughts and moments, though. And to think, he insisted that he wasn’t chatty or enjoyed the company of others. It seemed Jaskier couldn’t get him to shut up. 

Geralt asked, “Why did Tybalt take you? Did he say?”

Exhaling slowly, hoping Geralt could feel his annoyance with all these logistical questions breathing down his thick neck, Jaskier answered, “He said I was the first person you bothered to talk to in weeks, so I had to mean something to you.” In response, Geralt did his rumbling growl. “I know, he was very desperate. Now, please don’t chop my very nimble bard fingers off for saying this, but it’s a little sad if he was telling the truth. Was I really the first person you talked to in all that time?” Not missing a beat, Geralt only growled lower. Jaskier wondered if it was inappropriate or perverted to think the sound was kinda hot. Even though he made it a bit too often, it had that depth to it, the kind you felt from the bottom of your belly, that just made Jaskier wonder what it might feel like against his neck. 

...Shit, did he need to get laid the second they got to the next town. He’d already exhausted all the available options in Upper Posada and was starting to get turned on by grumpy man noises.

Clearing his throat, Jaskier said, “Nevermind. I’m happy he was right about you coming. You intrigued me in that tavern. But not nearly as much as you saving me does.” 

“Sure.”

“Really. A monster hunter is a fascinating find for a bored bard, but one willing to save me from the price of my own curiosity? Now that’s a true treasure.” 

Geralt gave a low laugh, a few pitches higher than that groan. It mixed gravelly and melodic a little too well. But Jaskier wasn’t quite sure if the Witcher was laughing with him or at him. “Your curiosity will kill you with that attitude.”

“But if someone like you were around...” Swallowing, Jaskier prepared himself for the sales pitch. He detangled his hair, got him a bath, comforted him with company. Now he (hopefully) just had to pull the trigger and this Witcher was a warm, malleable lump of clay in his hands. He just needed to form him into his personal travelling partner. 

Jaskier pulled free a few more strands of hair before saying, “Tell me. What compels someone like you to save people for fun and not coin? And if you won’t tell me that, what brought you to the dreadfully boring Upper Posada?” 

After the words left his lips, the room seemed to still. And not because the clay was moving right, but because Geralt seemed to have suddenly hardened into something he had no control over. Jaskier’s fingers falling away from his hair, the Witcher turned and looked straight into his eyes, cutting through all his pretenses. "I know what you are, Jaskier."

The bard felt everything below his neck turn to a statue under the yellow gaze. While no one knew who he was, who he really was, he couldn’t help but feel every layer of his lies jump off his bones, revealing the skeleton of a man he long-ago left dead. Trying to chuckle it off, Jaskier asked, "D-do you really?"

With a nod, Geralt turned back to his bath. "You're the kind of person who pretends to not give a shit, but you do." 

Jaskier could almost cheer. It wasn’t anything real or terrifying; it was all just an intuitive assumption. And a bad one, at that. Geralt was a perceptive man, but he was off the mark. Relaxing his shoulders, Jaskier ran his fingers through Geralt’s long mane of hair, removing all those final kinks. "The gentleman doth project his own personality too much. I always give a shit about people. All on my own I approached you, the scary, brooding Witcher, for a review of my music because I care. Now do I push people away despite liking them very much? Probably. But giving a shit and being a distant cad are two very, separate beasts." Shaking his head, Jaskier could take a deep breath again. His skeletons were safely secret inside his body, and again he was just a simple, handsome bard playing with the hair of an annoyingly captivating Witcher. "However, if you prefer to pretend that is who I am, I'll play the part to entertain a handsome man."

Geralt snorted, like he was trying to brush him off. Oh, if only he knew how impossible that would be. “Whatever. You’re still a nosy asshole.” 

“Try to tell me this isn’t the most fun you’ve had in weeks.”

“Easy. It isn’t.”

“You wound me. But I won’t hold it against you.” As Geralt relaxed his shoulders into the bath, Jaskier almost laughed. How did he end up here, invading the life of a Witcher? And odder, why did he let him? It was baffling.

Any other time, he’d love to contemplate how dumb this all was, how even immortal people were gullible idiots the second people started caring for them, but he had a mission. This was the perfect time to set his plans into motion. Time to pull the trigger, release the trap, get exactly what he wanted. After all, where did he have to go?

Okay, well, he had a few houses in other cities if he really needed them, but he meant other than those boring options.

Taking a deep breath, Jaskier said, “Just hear me out. You said my songs were wrong. Well, if you let me travel with you, I’ll write everything right, down to the smell of their black and bubbling guts.”

“I wasn’t that torn up about your dumb song.”

Jaskier pouted, but his heart started racing. He needed Geralt to say yes. “You either agree tonight or have me follow you like a proper stalker for weeks until I wear you down so much you might lose your mind before you say yes. I find that behavior reprehensible when used in the pursuit of romance, but I feel no guilt using it on the adventure of a lifetime.”

“Fine.”

“...That was easier than I expected.”

Geralt ducked his head under the water, soaking his hair, before surfacing and saying, “I just wanted you to shut up already. The bath is getting cold.” 

“I can’t wait for you to get tired of telling me to shut up.” Grabbing the soap next to the tub, Geralt groaned. And Jaskier wasn’t a huge fan of this guy getting annoyed by everything he said, but he’d met enough people to know there was something special underneath this asshole that he’d find worthwhile. He just had to play the long con.

When Geralt actually frowned after looking at him, Jaskier accepted the truth. 

A really, really long con. 

Hopefully the Witcher would be too oblivious to figure out his own secrets. 

It wasn’t long before Geralt finally shooed him out of the room. While Jaskier probably could have watched those large, strong hands rub all over his body the whole night, he figured he already coerced enough out of the man for one evening 

Anyway, was it really wise to hit on the guy with the swords who was giving him the most exciting life he’d had in centuries?

Exactly. It wasn’t. 

The next hour or so they did frighteningly boring things: preparing for bed, turning off the candlelight, going to sleep. But even in the pitch black darkness Jaskier was restless. He could hear the slow breathing of the Witcher, snoring just enough for it to be endearing but not so much that he wanted to smother his face with a pillowcase. 

What captured his heart in this restlessness the most, though, wasn’t the handsome, intriguing man, though he’d call that a serious bonus perk of this decision he’d made. 

No, it was the fact he was finally doing something with his life again. Not just accumulating money or laying low or playing games with occupations and people. He was on an adventure. 

Jaskier didn’t remember his early years well, but he could feel the echoes of memories that promised they were full of excitement, daring deeds, real storybook-type things. He wished he could have those stories again. The only thing he truly remembered from that time was the worst of it, the parts that hurt, that reminded him of what he risked if he ever dared touch his own power. 

And he remembered there was a reason he didn’t get very close to anyone, despite how much he liked people. Didn't need anymore collateral if he slipped up.

Lucky for him, even if he was attracted to Geralt, the Witcher was doing both their shares of pushing Jaskier away. It was disappointing, when everything about the man was mesmerizing. But in the end, it was probably for the best. A hot and steamy roll in the hay wasn’t worth missing out on the monsters and legends he might get to see, the new stories he could be a part of and sing about to kings and queens.

He could dazzle everyone, without having to ever meet them. 

So he and the Witcher? They would be travel companions, a means to an end, nothing more nothing less. 

The bard didn’t need a Witcher in the deepest parts of his life, anyway. Jaskier needed to do something for himself; he needed to be interesting. After all, if he was the only person he really knew, he needed to be someone goddamn worth knowing. 

Another snore from across the room interrupted his thoughts and made him stifle a laugh. A stubborn, helpless, amusing oaf this one was. But he kinda liked him. 

Even if this Witcher would only ever see him as a fool of a bard, as a fraction of the man he really was, it was better than no one ever seeing him at all. 

///

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who knows the musical Be More Chill, this title is inspired by the song from that musical that I have been listening to WAY too much. I'm shameless and I don't care.
> 
> Happy to make these two idiots sit down and have a sort of real conversation. I appreciate Jaskier accepting his attraction to Geralt very casually like it's just another buzz in his head, a piece of existing, and he doesn't worry about it much. 
> 
> I really like writing Jaskier WAY too much. He's great for narration. 
> 
> Anyway, thank you as always to my lovely patrons:  
> Danyell Jones  
> Amy Conolly 
> 
> See you next chapter! It'll be out Saturday, where Jaskier and Geralt get their first mission together ;)


	4. Mute Manservant and The Life Debt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier didn't know what he expected, but the start of their journey is... tense and he's having a lot of second thoughts. Even better, it might finally be time for him to see the Witcher in action.

He either was going to implode with annoyed curiosity or stab Geralt of Rivia in the face. Those were the only two options. 

Well, that, or just ask what the hell his problem was. But Gods knew if the damn man would give him a straight answer.

After leaving Upper Posada, they traveled a few days on their own. The more Jaskier tried to talk and connect, the more grunts and groans Geralt responded with. It was like the man was a shy clam. Jaskier wasn’t really sure how to deal with all the perturbed looks the Witcher always threw at him, especially with no words ever spoken to back them up.

Hell, he’d even taken to practicing the lute while walking, because Geralt would just get on his horse (named Roach, of all things), and ride ahead of him. In theory Geralt could just trot off if he hated him so much, but he never did. 

Jaskier couldn’t figure the damned man out. Did he like him, hate him, or tolerate him? And why?

Finally, unable to take those yellow eyes being so implicitly intrusive, he asked, “What the hell are you looking at?”

Geralt moved his eyes down to his pack, like he hadn’t just been burning holes in Jaskier’s skin. Setting up camp was so awkward with this Witcher. He was observant in an unsettling way, like he was hunting down every stray, odd piece of the bard. 

White Wolf, indeed.

The Witcher said, nonchalantly, “You’re not stiff.”

Not knowing what he really meant by that, Jaskier’s face scrunched up. “Okay? Thank you for that mildly unsettling observation.”

“A tavern bard can sleep on the ground; I’m surprised.”

If only he knew how often Jaskier had slept on the ground. Before he picked up any merchant or banking jobs, he was just a nameless fool trying to find a way to live. Sure, anything from the early days was blurry for him, but he could at least remember the broad brushstrokes of hard dirt and dying fires. He could even feel the ache, a phantom memory, of a deep pain in his side. A night sleeping on a rock, before he learned better, no doubt. 

But that was not a story he wanted to share with the Witcher. To him, he’d only had twenty-ish years of experience, all in Posada. He needed his stories to line up. While Geralt wasn’t much of a curious one, he didn’t need to give him reason to change his tune. 

Flashing his best smile, normally only saved for cute barmaids and slutty nobles, Jaskier said, “I’m a man of many talents. What can I say?” 

“Hmm.” Preoccupied with pulling out food items from his satchel, Geralt added, “We should be reaching Gulet in the morning. Bored yet?”

Jaskier didn’t appreciate his tone. It was the kind that expected him to be like a whimsical child, bored and tired of being out in the real world already. Geralt probably thought him the spoiled son of some noble who left on his own impulses to be a Bard. From his clothes and behavior, it wasn’t the wildest assumption. However, he wasn’t petulant because he was a child. He was petulant because he was so old that everything was annoying and exhausting, so he had to find fun in the world or he’d kill himself.

...That got dark, but wasn’t a lie.

Again, though, he couldn’t sass back at Geralt with honesty. Maybe this is why he didn’t talk to one person long; it eventually made him want to tell his life’s story. The parts he remembered, at least. 

With a deep sigh, Jaskier pulled out the bard charm. While Geralt’s condescending bullshit was tiresome, at least he could be witty about it. “I don’t get free bread anymore, but I see something other than four square walls made to cope with male misery in a small town, so I’ll call it a net gain. Instead I just watch your misery, but it comes with greenery and a much more handsome face, so I think it’s the kind of melancholy I can get behind.” When there was no reaction from Geralt, Jaskier almost wished he had one of those rolls with him. They were great projectiles to throw at idiots. He was funny, dammit. But he settled for amusing himself; he’d done that for years on his own. Still talking, Jaskier continued his rant, “Will say the early mornings are sort of getting to me, though. Do we always have to get up with the sunrise?” 

“Get over it.”

Jaskier was about ready to substitute a roll for a rock. 

This man dared to ask him how he felt about travelling and now was back to grumpy. Did he ever have real conversations with people or did he just get what he wanted and then act like a brick wall of a human? 

Their conversation in the bath was fairly decent, but looking back, Geralt was asking about Tybalt and trying to figure out Jaskier’s deal. Since then, it was like the bard had turned into the equivalent of a giant clay doll. Just some annoying cargo he was lugging around. 

Well, Jaskier was not going to let this idiot brute get to him. They were just travelling companions, nothing more. 

It didn’t mean anything that he chose the kind of answer that would irritate him the most. 

“Somehow your short answers only make you all the more fascinating.” And Geralt still didn’t react, just started peeling a damn potato with his knife. Jaskier groaned, threw down his blanket, and laid on top of it. “What’s for dinner?”

“Food.” 

He was going to kill this man. After years of being a generally unproblematic human, three days into adventuring and he was going to commit murder and he didn’t even care. 

Good looks didn’t make up for this. 

“Har har, hilarious.” Watching Geralt’s fingers glide across a potato, peeling it perfectly with an unbroken touch, the bard felt his emotions cool and his thoughts transfixed. Jaskier’s annoyance faded at the sight of a more complicated man than the bristle and blade Geralt kept exuding. He had to remind himself there was more than muscles and protection that brought him here. 

Maybe he could try to be less of a reactionary asshole; be the curious side of him, not just the equally crotchety old man. Jaskier started with a compliment. “You know, you’re a surprisingly good cook.”

“Long years on the road teach you something.” That wasn’t an insult; it was a start. 

Jaskier wanted, craved, to crack a joke about how he didn’t learn how to cook despite his time on the road; even when he travelled like a richer man, he either just stuffed his face with bread or had someone else make meals. 

Looking back, maybe there was a reason he had a bread problem. 

After he opened his mouth for the third time, wanting to compliment Geralt but trying not to do it in such a way-too-honest, a blow-his-cover kind of way, the Witcher started shaking his head. 

Part of Jaskier wanted to flare up again, yell at him, but he knew his anger got neither of them anywhere. And, worse, it reminded him too much of a monster he once knew. He left it behind on purpose; he would not go back there again. 

Instead, he spent the next half hour watching Geralt stir together a meal, giving him those glances every so often. Once the pot was boiling, but he wasn’t, he asked with a tempered voice, “Why do you keep looking at me like I’m some sideshow entertainment?”

“You won’t be here long.”

Jaskier laughed, but it had a bitter aftertaste. “I said I want to follow your adventures. I don’t joke about that. Sure, I am rarely serious in general, but if I do get serious? Oh, then no one can stop me.”

“Sure.”

“I don’t know what childhood abandonment issues you have, but just trust me, will you?”

Handing him a bowl of some soup concoction, Geralt replied, “I don’t.”

“Fair. Maybe just don’t assume the worst of me, then?”

“Also no.”

Sighing, Jaskier tired of trying to make a different man out of the Witcher. He was who he was, guarded, grumpy, and hostile to anyone trying to find themselves closer to him. No amount of good intentions or tapered anger would change that. 

While Jaskier would stick to being the better, happier, cheerier man he wanted to be, Geralt was going to be a fortress of self-inflated stoicism and masculinity. And that was fine. Definitely fine. 

It had to be fine. 

After a bite of soup, again, surprisingly good for road food, Jaskier asked, “Can I get you to say you won’t stab me in my sleep? Is that something you can do?”

“... Yes.”

“Wonderful. Willing to not murder me is the start of a great bond.” Staring down at his bowl, Jaskier had some harsh honesty that he was half-convinced was more for himself than Geralt. “You could actually try with people sometimes, you know. Just saving lives every so often doesn’t net you friends.”

“I know.” 

When their bowls were empty, Jaskier gave them a quick rinse in the river they’d been following to Gulet. He got back to camp once they looked clean enough, and Geralt was already tucked into his bedroll, turned away from the fire. 

It was like the guy actively tried to be an asshole. No wonder he struggled to make friends with anyone, why Jaskier was the first person he talked to in weeks. Three days, and his best progress with him was when he was just desperate to get his tangled hair unknotted. That made Jaskier feel dirty. He thought he was manipulating the Witcher to do what he wanted, but maybe he wasn’t the only one. 

He couldn’t spend all night thinking about it, though. They had to get to Gulet in the morning. And maybe Geralt was right, maybe they should part ways there. What was he trying to prove, anyway? That he could go on adventures and not get tempted by the lightning rods in his fingertips? 

One night with a bristly man and he slipped into being a much angrier man. What would make his powers any different?

Jaskier let the darkness seep into his eyes and settle him to sleep, wondering if his selfishness was getting the best of him all over again. 

In the morning, he woke to a strange cup next to his face. 

Rubbing his eyes and sitting up, he asked, “What is this?”

Nodding at the drink, Geralt was already packing his things. “Helps with the mornings.”

Jaskier stared at the mug in front of him. Picking it up, it seemed like some sort of root tea. Probably took some time to wake up and get it ready for him, to boil water over the remnants of the fire. That is, or use those mythical Witcher powers to heat it up. 

Peering up at the man saddling his horse, this mug spoke to a different human than the scowl on his face or his insults last night.

Breathless, Jaskier said, “Thank you. This is-”

“Don’t.” 

He didn’t push it. Jaskier just sipped his tea while Geralt deconstructed the rest of their camp. 

Just like their supplies, Jaskier packed away his thoughts of leaving. Tybalt wasn’t a fluke; helping Geralt with his hair wasn’t one either. There was something, not quite touchable, about this man. 

Jaskier couldn’t help but notice how he looked like a misplaced vampire in the sunlight, like he’d lived his life being told he didn’t belong here, but forced to go out anyway. He couldn’t stop noticing it, no matter how much small talk they made on the rest of their walk.

Emphasis on small talk, though. It was mostly Jaskier raving about some weird dream he had, with a dryad and several angry nature spirits. That, or discussing the bare minimum he knew about Gulet from Posada rumors. Geralt just sat there and listened, but unlike last night, that was fine. 

Gods knew Jaskier spent enough time talking with himself over the years. Having an audience just gave a new, voyeuristic flair to it. 

But their conversation didn’t stay on their own for too long. After the seventeenth farm they passed, they came upon two guards gripping their swords like they were threads of fate.  
Knowing Geralt wasn’t the most friendly folk and might scare the poor boys out of their skin, Jaskier spoke first, “What are two handsome fellows like you doing this far out of town?”

“There’s a wraith stalking the farms at night. We come out here in the mornings to assess the damage from the spectral beastie.” Though their voices were all sarcastic and pithy, Jaskier could tell their amygdala’s spoke otherwise. “I’d say be careful, but looks like your friend there is packing some serious-” As the taller guard with the large upper lip traced over Geralt’s get-up, his eyes bugged. “Bloody hell, is that a silver sword?”

Jaskier was quick to not have some Gulet guards raising a fuss the second they got back to town. He remembered what rumors were like for Witchers nowadays; not too friendly. Especially not for Geralt, with Butcher of Blaviken tied to his name. “Absolutely not, it just looks silver. He likes to polish it quite often, if you know what I mean. But best of luck with your search, men.”

Even though they seemed to believe him enough, the two men tipped their helmets and rushed off like their mummies just called for dinner. And not just any dinner, but their favorite meal in the world. 

That, or their mothers were just that terrifying.

The second they were out of sight, Geralt smacked the back of Jaskier’s head. “That could’ve been a job.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes. No wonder Witchers had such bad PR, between the slapping and poor business sense. Patting Roach, he said, “It will be a job. But we can’t take it from poor guards getting the shit shifts. We take the job from the richer folk terrified their silver spoons might get pulled from their mouths. A win for the poor guards, not having to scrounge up coin for us, and we get paid better by less desperate, more paranoid men.”

“We?”

“Oh, don’t get your stupidly tight pants in a rustle. You’ll be doing all the real work. I’m just here to chronicle.”

Geralt gave a curt nod. “Good. You’d die immediately.”

“You really think so little of me?”

“Yes. I could break you over my knee like I was cracking an egg.”

Shrugging, Jaskier frowned a little. He didn’t like the image that was put in his head, of an egg with fabulous fashion sense shattering in half. He didn’t know how that would be put back together again. “Wow, that was a little threatening.” 

Geralt chuckled on his high horse, literally. “Trust me, if I was threatening you, you’d know.” As they entered the town, it was fairly small and unimpressive. There were defined dirt roads and some larger buildings, but it was in no way industrious like other large cities. While watching a young boy kick another in the shins, Geralt insisted, “You don’t have to be so sensitive about everything.”

Jaskier was still wincing at the poor smaller child nursing his leg. “It’s a bard’s way. The world is our reflection and we must see the art in it.”

“Right.” They came up to a tie-out. Getting off Roach, Geralt knotted her reins onto a post, securing her tight. “Ignoring your stupid bard thing, let’s go find someone who wants that wraith gone.” 

While Geralt seemed to be in a different headspace, Jaskier still didn’t appreciate his comments on being a bard. “I’ll just follow behind, being stupid.”

“Isn’t that what you always do?”

Oh, that was asking for it. While Jaskier had decided to stick with this somewhat asshole, that didn’t mean he needed to take insults lying down. He was not getting paid to let this man toss his dick around; that hadn’t been his job is nearly a century. 

But, of course, Jaskier was going to have the most fun he could with the revenge. No better way to make friends than be an impertinent asshole, right?

Walking up to a slightly better dressed man in front of a tavern of sorts, Jaskier said, “Hello, me and my mute manservant heard there’s a wraith problem. Who would we meet to talk about that?”

“Well--” The man’s eyes flitted to Geralt, but Jaskier could have none of that. 

With a swift interruption, the bard shook a finger in front of the man’s face. “No no no, trust me, he’s too dumb to understand you. Just talk to me.”

The tavern man gave a very unsettled, flitting look in between Jaskier and Geralt. But, he eventually got the nerve to speak. “I, uh, I’d guess if anyone would be wanting to talk to you it’d be the mayor. He’s at the community building over there.” He pointed to this larger, wider construction with a big crest on the front.

Right. That would’ve made sense. 

Tipping his head like he had a hat, Jaskier said, “Why, thank you good sir.”

As if he’d burn alive if he stayed too close, the man briskly walked away. Jaskier felt quite proud of himself, but when he turned, Geralt looked less than pleased. 

The Witcher growled, his yellow eyes a special level of sharpened and pissed. “What the hell was that about?”

“A mute manservant doesn’t have to talk to people, does he? I did you a service.”

Jaskier walked past Geralt, heading towards the central building. Rolling his eyes, Geralt followed. “Sure you did.” 

“Shh, the muscle doesn’t speak.” When he reached the guard in front, he said, “We’re here to see the mayor.”

Unlike a bigger town with fancier streets or scarier, greedier mayors, the guard shrugged and nodded. “Yeah, sure.” Then, he opened the door and led them in. “It’s to the left. If you get lost, God save you.”

Much to Jaskier’s chagrin, Geralt picked up the pace and went into the room first, with this devious look in his eye. Somehow he was intrigued and horrified all at once. He didn’t know if this was going to be the most fascinating moment of his life or more reason to try to incinerate the Witcher.

Standing in front of the Mayor’s desk, the man didn’t even get to stand before Geralt had his arms all crossed, saying, “Heard you had a wraith problem.”

“...We do.” The rail thin man looked the skittish type, crooked glasses falling off his nose and his eyes flicking over to Jaskier. The Bard didn’t know what it was about this town, they seemed baffled by the pair. Maybe the combination of a scary Witcher and a well-dressed man with a lute really blew their minds. 

Geralt raised a hand, like waving Jaskier away. He didn’t like that, not one bit. He liked what came out of Geralt’s mouth even less. “Don’t worry about him. He owes me a life debt, so he follows me around like a slave until he feels like he’s humiliated himself enough to earn it back. I’d say he’s a little over-committed to the role, but hey, life debts.”

Jaskier was stunned. One, because he’d never been so boldly offended in his life. But two, because that was the most words he’d heard out of the Witcher the entire time he’d known him, and they were used to make him look like an idiot in front of a town mayor. 

Helpless, Jaskier played the part, giving an open-mouthed nod. 

With his own eyebrows knitted, the mayor looked like he thought he was going insane. “...Right. Anyway, are you saying you can help?”

“As a Witcher, yes. For a price.”

Instead of questioning Geralt in any way, he just let out this deep, long sigh of relief. Guess the wraith thing was causing quite a bit of trouble, right here in Gulet city. “Trust me, we’ll pay you handsomely. That thing has been a blight on this town for far too long. She was once the miller’s daughter, so we tried to respect his wishes to leave her be, but she’s caused too much damage. She needs to go.” Glancing over at Jaskier, the mayor tentatively asked, “Your.. Slave. Does he really enjoy having his clothes like that?”

Jaskier had to contain his visceral rage. This man was dressed in droopy, mustard orange drapes. How dare he?

His simple blue travelling jacket and matching pants were much more refined than anything this man might ever wear. 

Geralt redirected on his behalf, though, and again Jaskier wasn’t sure he actually appreciated it. “He says if it’s ever needed, he’d be happy to distract a monster to save my life. I tell him he should value his life more, but he insists.”

“Poor, brave young man.” The mayor came around his table and took Jaskier’s hands in his own. His eyes were so sympathetic and piteous that it took all the bard’s energy not to punch his face through his lute. The lute would die, but that would be a worthy sacrifice. “Pledging yourself to a Witcher is a dangerous business, but if you die, it’ll be for a good cause.”

“... Thank you.” After the mayor released his hands, Geralt didn’t even bother with any sort of fake-ass pretenses anymore. He just walked out, with Jaskier behind him. Tragically, because out of politeness he felt obligated to wave at the man. Even though he definitely did not want to wave at that bloody idiot. 

When they were finally outside again, Jaskier yelled, “I hate you. You made me look like a fool.”

“You talked for me. I wanted to return the favor.” Geralt kept walking in front of him like he hadn’t just told the mayor of an entire town that he was a pathetic meat-shield. The mute ruse to a nobody was one thing, but this? Even if he wanted to ditch him now, he couldn’t. Gulet would never be hospitable for him. Everyone would know him as the Witcher’s little bitch, for fuck’s sake.

But Geralt seemed unphased, saying, “Now, let’s get some supplies. We have a job to do. Unless you have decided this is all too scary?” The man didn’t even look back at him. The nerve. 

Picking up his walking pace, Jaskier insisted on striding toe to toe with Geralt, able to look up into his eyes. He smirked. “Can’t frighten me that easily. I am a brave young man, remember?” 

“Good, because I don’t want to spend extra hours killing a monster because I have to make sure it doesn’t kill you.”

Jasking couldn’t help puffing his cheeks. Guess pathetic meat-shield wasn’t too off from what Geralt thought of him. “I can take care of myself, thank you.”

“Untying knots weaker than your grandmother’s macrame doesn‘t count.” Sighing, Geralt stopped and looked at Jaskier very seriously. Like he was trying to give him an out, if he wanted it. “It’s going to be a long night.”

Lucky for Jaskier, he wasn’t that much of a little bitch. “As long as you can handle it.”

He knew Geralt didn’t mean to, especially because he shut it down the second it happened, but he smiled. “I’m starting to think you’re more trouble than the wraith is.” 

Jaskier wasn’t quite sure if he liked being that much trouble. 

Especially because he secretly loved the thought of being trouble. 

Guess he’d see tonight, truly, if following this Witcher was a good idea or not. From the bottom of his heart, he wanted it to be. Who could resist a good idea that came with a fascinating and handsome man who made him tea in the morning?

A travelling companion who kept things interesting and fed him sounded like a dream.

But Jaskier also wasn’t sure if that was the selfish power-rush about being with Geralt talking or if this really was, in fact, a good idea. 

///

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ended up SO long because it was either have two, very short like 2K chapters or just go all in.
> 
> Per usual, I chose the all-in method. 
> 
> BUT I love getting to see Geralt and Jaskier start to adjust to each other. Both are men with mysteries interested in one another but still exhuastingly bristly and guarded. Their conversations are a constant game of chess played by two idiots who don't know the rules and I love it. 
> 
> I also don't think Jaskier's narration will ever get boring. 
> 
> Next chapter, wraith time!
> 
> I so write incorrect Witcher quotes on Tumblr if you fancy @incorrectly-quoted-queers 
> 
> Thanks as always to my lovely patrons:  
> Danyell Jones  
> Amy Connolly 
> 
> See you Wednesday <3


	5. Of Bodies and Bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier and Geralt finally go to put the wraith to rest... but find a lot more than they bargained for

“That bloody mayor wouldn’t know fashion if it hit him in the fucking face. Which it did, and he called it ridiculous. I hate Gulet.”

It had been a good hour since they met with said mayor, a spineless prick with clearly terrible sensibilities, but Jaskier finally bursted with his distaste. At first, he tried not to talk about it. He really did. The bard wanted to be a little less petty; it was one of his best qualities for amusement, but worst in getting him in trouble. But Jaskier couldn’t stand the juxtaposition of that man’s gall and his clothes dyed the perfect shade of piss and shit anymore.

Next to him, the Witcher stopped walking. “How long were you sitting on that?”

Exhaling, Jaskier admitted, “Ever since we left the mayor's office. I just got distracted by all your supply shopping. Monster hunting provisions are fascinating.”

Without missing a beat, The Witcher stopped looking at him, started walking, and said, “Strange man, you are.”

“As I’ve been called much worse, I’ll take it as a compliment.” Honestly, Jaskier was just happy he seemed to take his commentary in stride. He hated to admit it, but most people were tired by now. He was the kind of person people liked to see at parties, charming and sexy, but wanted to flay if he stayed til the morning. The only exceptions were people entranced by his abilities or prowess in bed.

Geralt had lasted several days now, without song or sex to ply him. It was pretty impressive. 

Grunting, the Witcher said, “You seem to take everything as a compliment.”

“Better way to live my life than be a crotchety old man.” When Jaskier looked to Geralt, he was glaring. He wasn’t quite sure why until he realized that, as far as Geralt understood, he was the only old man around. 

Oh great, just as the banter was getting slightly amicable, he had to accidentally piss the Witcher off. And what was he to say now? Just kidding, pal, I actually meant me, a secretly centuries old geezer? 

That would be a completely different mess.

Coughing, Jaskier just tried to change the subject. “Now, before we enter this place, no tiresome needling on both sides? Can we call a truce?” Already at the miller’s house, he didn’t want another “lying about each other” fiasco. Amusing as it was, it could turn sinister very fast. And by that he meant he was a bitter, petty bitch and he didn’t need to vindictively start a revenge war with a Witcher. 

Jaskier had enough rivals, by profession and personality alone. He didn’t need an actually threatening one. 

With a tossed passive aggressive glance, full of furrowed brows and scowling, Geralt replied, “How about you shut up and I ask questions.”

“As long as you never talk about my life-debt again, perfectly fine with me.”

When Geralt knocked on the door, the answer didn’t take long. Within seconds, an aging man with flour-specked clothes opened the door. It was even like his hair was in on the style, because it was a chocolate brown peppered with white-gray strands. One look at him and anyone could tell he was the miller or baker. And all it took was one whiff, devoid of any fresh goods, to deduce from there. 

The man had a nice smile, though. Crooked lips with crooked teeth, but a warmth to it that most people never bothered with, when it came to smiling at strangers. Jaskier couldn’t help but smile back. 

Seeing the Witcher next to Jaskier, though, the wide smile faltered a bit. He couldn’t really blame the man. “H-how can I help you?”

“We’re here to ask about your daughter.”

And that smile faded, like the sun falling behind the mountains on a winter’s day. The land beneath them went frigid. “Ah. Yes.” Swallowing a deep breath like he had to remind himself, the miller asked, “The mayor finally hire someone to take care of my Emily, is it?”

The Witcher was simple in his answer, but his intonation was surprisingly sympathetic. “Yes.”

“They left her alone far longer than I expected, to be honest.” Those once-wide lips, smiling like the sun, were small and flat. Jaskier was excited about some adventure and monsters, but just looking at this guy was starting to swallow all his excited butterflies whole. “She’s not quite... herself anymore.”

He didn’t mean to snort, he really didn’t. But he did, and to add insult to injury, said, “That’s an understatement.” 

Both men did not look at him with kind eyes. 

Sighing, Geralt turned back to the miller. “Why did she turn into a wraith?”

“This local boy, Derry, was her sweetheart. They planned to marry. I even was teaching him the family business. But then this handsome young man moved to town, Ariel. Emily and Derry befriended him; they were friendly folk. A few weeks ago, though, Ariel and Derry ran off to who knows fucking where and Emily was left behind.” Heated by the last few things he said, the miller swallowed air like if he didn’t, he’d stop breathing entirely. Jaskier didn’t know why, but he could feel a pang in his chest, an old, ancient ache, at watching this father struggle to mourn. The miller added, “She was my only child, my Emily. But a few nights after they left, she went out to the woods and didn’t come back. Then the wraith started showing up. It’s safe to say she’s not alive, out there.” 

Again with the surprising sympathy, Geralt nodded and said, “I’m sorry. But if we could look through her things, we can put your Emily to rest.”

Nodding, the miller stepped back from the door, gesturing for them to enter. It was a small hovel, the stove shoved inches from a bed, making way for a table too large for one man. Four sets of boots sat by the hearth, varying in size. They didn’t look like they’d been worn in a long time. But despite its size and ghosts it was homey, filled with little twig creatures and candles and whispers of memories. 

Jaskier only wished that for this poor man those lovely things were alive, not echoes. 

Pointing to the uneven steps on the far side of the room, he said, “Emily’s room was upstairs. Feel free to look.” 

They both tipped their heads to him and walked up the slightly unnerving wooden stairs. Jaskier was half convinced Geralt’s weight would fall through them and their hunt would evolve into a rescue mission. But, luckily, they got to the top landing with no trouble. 

The only door was on the left. Opening it, Geralt kept this stoic, stern thing going on with his face. Jaskier, on the other hand, was immediately delighted. After all, the first thing they saw in her room was a lute. “Ah, a girl of good taste!”

“Her fiance ran off with a stranger. Obviously not.”

Jaskier winced. “I felt that one in my gut and it wasn’t even about me. Quite brutal of you, Geralt.” As he touched the lute, Geralt growled. 

“We’re here to look for clues of where she was killed, not play around with a dead girl’s things. Pull yourself together.” 

Pulling his hand from the lute, he swallowed, reminding himself to act as he should, not as he felt. Sometimes Jaskier forgot how much people honored the possessions of the dead. To him, everything was a possession of people long dead, so sentimentality didn’t much play into it. 

But not everybody had lived long enough for that to become their opinion. 

He played it off, all puff-cheeked and haughty. “Oh, fine.” While Geralt very briefly touched various objects and breathed them in like they were scented candles (which was fucking weird, to say the least), Jaskier found a little notebook on her bedside table. Like the shameless man he was, he opened it and was delighted to find it was her personal journal.

Skimming a few pages, most of it was tame. Spats with local girls, the first time she and Derry made love, what she wanted to name their children. 

But about six weeks ago, things got wild. Jaskier’s eyes practically bugged out of his skull while he read it. 

With a click of his tongue, Jaskier said, “Oh my, this girl’s diary is absolutely juicy.” 

Geralt stopped huffing the young girl’s personal belongings (thank god) and was by his side in two unsettling large strides. “Hmm?”

“Apparently, she and Derry weren’t just friends with this Ariel; they were all lovers. If I remember correctly, I’ve done that kind of thing before. It’s pretty hot.” Jaskier was a little concerned he couldn’t quite remember who, when, or where, but he shook his head and carried on, “She also was with child, and waiting to tell Derry on his birthday. But on said birthday, he disappeared into thin air.” That’s quite the exciting young rebellion. For all he dreaded about his younger self, he did hope he was an absolutely fascinating scoundrel. But just as he was about to continue on, he remembered he probably should add, “Oh, and Ariel was a vampire.”

“That last part seems a little important.”

“Shhh, a little vampirism isn’t that big of a deal.” Realizing he was showing a possible clue to his age and mortality status, Jaskier just tried to play up the scoundrel part. He added his best, salacious wink. “Well, I suppose it is to some people.”

Meanwhile, Geralt did not look amused and instead just kept scowling. 

Guess he didn’t need to make a big production of that. Made that kind of embarrassing. 

Waving his hand at the Witcher, Jaskier said, “Don’t slut-shame me, Geralt. I am a grown man who does what he wants. Especially when it comes to matters of my own bed.” Flipping to the last written note in the little journal, from a little under two weeks ago, Jaskier relayed Emily’s final words: “Her last entry says she was going to look for Ariel and Derry by the “old willow”. Said it was where they all met up for... dates.”

“Good. Hope there’s a body.”

After he put down the journal, Jaskier scrunched up his face at the Witcher. “Ew?”

He didn’t get an answer, though, because the damned man was already racing his ass down the stairs. Jaskier wasn’t exactly short or lacked agility, but the Witcher was something else. 

Jaskier barely got to say goodbye to the sweet, sad miller before he had to start jogging to catch up to Geralt. And considering he hadn’t jogged in 70 years, he wasn’t exactly happy about it. Puffing air, Jaskier grabbed Geralt’s shoulder to stop him. “What’s with the race?”

“The scent is faint. If we want to find that willow tree, we need to move fast.” As he started walking, picking up the pace all over again, Geralt, clarified, “We need her bones to banish her.”

“Oh.” Back to jogging, Jaskier mentally apologized to his poor legs and promised them the sweetest of baths next chance they got. Sarcastic and a little cranky, since he was once pretty excited to do absolutely zero work during these adventures, he said, “Well, I can’t wait to see rotting flesh. That’s my favorite.”

“Gross.”

Jaskier was ready to throttle the Witcher. Running, making him look and sound like a fool, what was next? Actually making him fight monsters? Three days with an attractive mutant sword-master and his entire perception of himself was getting thrown out the goddamn window. 

He drew the line at giving up music, though. That would be cause for a swift and immediate break up. 

Groaning, Jaskier huffed, “I was kidding! Who knew Witchers struggled with humor?” He was a little annoyed he was hitting a stride, getting more comfortable with running. Damn his old years of athleticism and the agelessness of his body. Now he had to fake some discomfort later. With a raised eyebrow, he watched the forest floor for tree knots and made sure to trip over at least one. After a good, awful knee-knocking, he accepted that he looked properly pathetic. So, Jaskier got to asking, “Who likes the undead, anyway?”

“Considering you’ve had sex with vampires...”

“That’s different and you know it.” Just then, another memory of skimming her diary came back to him. After a particularly far-too-detailed entry of boring sex talk, Emily said something a bit problemtatic. “Oh, also she wasn’t sure if the baby was Ariel’s or Derry’s.”

Geralt stopped dead and whacked Jaskier in the forehead. The force was enough to almost knock the bard to the ground, which would have been very fucking annoying for his handsome pants. Growling, the Witcher said, “Thanks for almost forgetting to mention that. That’s important. Might be why the vampire wanted her gone.” Now just at a walking pace, Geralt was pointing his nose every which way and doing weird sniffs. It was like he was a hungry dog. Jaskier had to admit, this was one part of Witcher-dom that might take some time to adjust to. “Next time, you’re not allowed to read the diary.”

“That implies a next time and I am already titillated by the thought.” Brushing a tree, a spiderweb tangled on Jaskier’s sleeve. Fantastic. That’s disgusting. 

With a frown, he used the very tips of his fingers to remove it and toss the damn thing to the ground. Jaskier said, “I’d joke about wanting a mission more glamorous, but I doubt with that perfected groan that glamorous is in your lifestyle vocabulary.” Chuckling to himself, he pictured a princely Geralt, dressed up with perfumes and puffed sleeves and a cute little flower crown. “Maybe one day I’ll doll you up and take you to a party.” 

“Now you’re actually trying to torment me.”

“Not a fan of the pomp and circumstance of nobility? I thought maybe you’d surprise me and like to clean up nice at the rare soiree. Charm a few pretty ladies. Beat a man over the head with your wits, not your sword.”

Even though Geralt couldn’t take a single second to look at him, he did still keep answering. “What was it you said? About projecting?”

“Fair.” Climbing over a tree log, careful not to step in a whole pile of worms, Jaskier countered, “But what if--”

Geralt interrupted him, a hand in his way, palm pressed against his chest. “Fuck. And there’s the body.” 

Jaskier ignored how intrigued he was by the Witcher’s fingers splayed across his ribcage. It was easy to do, with a dead body a few feet away. Under a giant willow tree, there was a young woman in a tattered dress, her skin tight to her bones. Chocolate brown hair turned stiff straws, and her body so hollow and cage-like, his own breath was trapped in his chest. 

He could barely process what they saw before them, but Geralt was already walking forward. “The wraith will probably show up soon. Stay away. Be careful.” After an aggravated growl, he said, “The things immortals do to the mortals they say they love.” 

Jaskier meant to stay away. He had absolutely no intention of walking anywhere near that damned willow tree, where a vampire used love to kill. But hearing those words, they started to echo in his head, like they reminded him of a quote from a story he once loved. They rattled and made his brain feel absolutely insane, until it came to him. 

Picturing a man with a thin face, this thick black hair and trimmed beard, and the most stunning hazel eyes, similar words were coming out of his mouth, “The things a mortal does for love.”

And then, clear as day, he could see that same man bloody, beaten, and mangled under the tree.

Unable to control himself, Jaskier started walking towards the form. This man, handsome and foolish, was important to him once. He could feel it, remember what it was like to stroke his beard, to capture a course strand in between his fingertips and make the other man laugh. 

He couldn’t even fucking remember his name, but he was important. 

Maybe he was the one that got him here. 

Just as Jaskier leaned down to touch the mangled man, Geralt yelled, “Jaskier!”

Startled out of his trance, the bard looked up to see a spectral figure staring down at him. The face was covered in a gray shroud, like it was an unholy veil, and worse, he almost swore he could see a way too wide, toothy grin hiding under the deepest fabric. 

If it wasn’t for the malice behind it, he could see the miller’s smile in his daughter.

Geralt came at the wraith with a running start, with some sort of Witcher sign and salts prepared. While the trap worked well and the powder did droop her down a few inches, she still managed to knock the Witcher back and the sword out of his hand.

Leaving Jaskier trapped here, in the circle with her. 

He was tempted to use magic, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember any spells. So, instead, he hoped that swordsmanship was like jogging. 

Picking up Geralt’s sword, only inches from his fingertips, also coated in some sort of oil that would make her weak, Jaskier stood and faced her. He twirled the sword in his hand until it felt right and, just as she was ready to strike, he slashed in the form of a Z, cutting through her legs, torso, and head. 

Much to his hope (and an ample amount of surprise) the wraith shrieked and disappeared into dust. 

Jaskier was breathing heavier than he had in years; he also felt more alive than ever. 

Despite the fact his brain wanted to go back to that dark-haired man, a mystery lost to him, Geralt was soon up and running to his side. He had the most bewildered look on his face, saying, “What was that?”

With an uncomfortable, pitchy laugh, Jaskier handed the sword back and said, “Me not dying?”

Geralt sheathed his silver blade, back to where it belonged. Good. Jaskier really didn’t want to do that again anytime soon. It wasn’t who he was trying to be. “You used a sword. And you didn’t stab yourself or pull something. Most people pull something.”

While there were centuries of explanations behind what happened, Jaskier chose a simpler truth: “I said I was a man of many talents.”

“You’re a bard.”

Where his insides were panicking, the best balm for his overwhelmed brain was to fall back into being effortless, charismatic Jaskier. “A Bard who just did your job, if I say so myself.”

“A Bard who almost got himself killed by being an idiot.”

Swallowing, remembering the wraith’s breath (or ether) falling on his face, he admitted, “Not false, but I’m choosing to look at the positives here.” 

“Don’t get in the way and you don’t need a sword.”

Jaskier’s smile was big. His voice was chipper. He had to be so cute and so annoying and so sure of himself because everything else inside him was very, very wrong. Jaskier couldn’t stop picturing the long-faced man, now able to remember these dimples in his cheeks that only felt all the more haunting. 

Geralt couldn’t know about the man. Hell, he shouldn’t even know about him. No matter how compelled he felt to remember. 

Instead, Jaskier shrugged and stepped a few paces from the body, hands of his hips. “Hmm, I think I’ll just take the win. “The Bard Who Saved The White Wolf” sounds like a great title to a song, doesn’t it?” Geralt did his grumble-groan thing, and it sated him. If he could fool the Witcher to think him a happy-go-lucky idiot, he could fool himself. Jaskier smirked, “It’s perfect, I knew it.” 

Pulling out a bag, Geralt gathered the body. Jaskier noticed that, despite his gruff nature, he was quite gentle with what was left of the young girl in love. “Let’s just bury these. Properly. Get the job done.” 

Jaskier just nodded and followed him. 

Halfway back, Jaskier was still wrestling with his flashback of a mangled man and the persona he had going. Did this mean his memories weren’t really lost to him? Would more of them come back if he spent more time with the Witcher? Out of desperation, Jaskier said, "You know, this future song could be a hit all the way from Kaedwen to Cintra.” 

"I don't go to Cintra." 

“Ominous. Why not?”

“None of your business.” 

Scoffing, Jaskier asked, “Not even for the foolish man that saved his own life?”

Even though Geralt always looked annoyed with him, this time he also got this adorable little smirk. Maybe the bard was finally making some dents in this man’s impenetrable grump. “Not even for a surprising fool.”

They talked some more on the walk, but Jaskier was barely aware of it. He felt like he was stuck outside of his body, watching himself chatter on next to this white-haired mystery of a man. If there ever was a reason to leave him, this mission just gave him a perfect one. Remembering his past was a dangerous road to go down, especially after so many years of forgetting. 

But when they took Emily back to her father, and Geralt prioritized helping him bury her over getting the payment that night, Jaskier couldn’t help but float back into his body and smile stupidly at this man who insisted he wasn’t a hero. 

Adventuring with him was dangerous in every way, but Jaskier couldn’t help but feel like it had to be worth it. It definitely wasn’t a good idea, and definitely could ruin him. But Jaskier didn’t give a damn. 

On their walk back to town, Jaskier looked up into those perceptive and perpetually annoyed yellow eyes and asked, “So, where to next?” 

///

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EEK a little window there in Jaskier's past. Also vampires? Getting a little twisty here. 
> 
> I am really adoring this story. Next chapter they head out of Gulet somewhere else and it's HYPE
> 
> Thanks so very much for reading! And triple thousand thanks to my wonderful, scrumptious patrons:  
> Danyell Jones  
> Amy Connolly
> 
> See you all Saturday!


	6. Daywalkers and Daydrinkers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier and Geralt find a new mission to follow, a murder in a nearby town, and Jaskier asks too many questions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr: https://incorrectly-quoted-queers.tumblr.com/

When Jaskier opened his eyes, he wondered if Geralt of Rivia was really that much of a motherfucking bitch. 

The birds were chirping slightly too soprano for his tastes, the sun was shining through the window like an inconsiderate peeping tom, and the bed next to his was flat, tucked, and empty. 

And he’d just gotten excited about travelling with the Witcher. 

Maybe this was some twisted karma about the wraith thing. He dares actually get involved and be helpful (even if it got a little hairy for a moment) and the Witcher fucking disappears into the sunrise’s warm bosom, never to be seen again. 

Pulling on his doublet and grabbing his travel bag and lute, Jaskier got up faster than he ever had in his life. Mind you, since he’d been alive centuries, that was a god damn feat. Even his residual athleticism from years long gone were quite dissatisfied. Normally he at least drank something warm and splashed his face with water. 

After all, he never had been willing to wake with the sun before the Witcher rudely took control of his life.  
Plodding down the stairs like the thick oaf he wasn’t, Jaskier hopped a few steps just to descend faster. 

"Oh great, abandoned in an inn by a Witcher, like I'm some seedy, regrettable one night stand.” His plan was also running through his head at a breakneck pace. Knowing Geralt, he’d be riding that Roach of his as leisurely pace, so if he just ran, he should be able to catch them before they got too far. “Well when I find him, because I fucking will, I will kindly inform him that I am one regret he is NOT allowed to-"

But then he ran mouth first into black leather as he rounded the corner of the stairs. From the growl and the white strands flicking his face, it could only be one person. Looking up, Jaskier blinked and said, "Oh. Geralt."

Rolling his eyes, the Witcher started walking back down the stairs. "Just about to wake you. Thought you might've been dead, honestly." He tossed a large bag of coin onto the nearest table before swinging his leg over a chair and sitting. He said, "Collected the payment. Breakfast's on me."

Still a little stunned by his own panic, he didn’t even bother to right himself when his bag and lute started falling off his shoulders. Jaskier was more wondering if some dream demon took him in his sleep and was showing him things that sounded nice, but weren’t real.

That, or he still didn’t know the Witcher very well. But nothing about him screamed, “I stay for people” so who could blame him?

Dropping his things on the table beside them, Jaskier sat on the chair like it might change its mind and start eating his ass. He still didn’t feel too firm on the tangibility of this entire scenario.

Frowning, Jaskier said, "How gallant of you." Flicking his eyes around the room, looking for glowing red candles or too-wide, sinister smiles hiding in windows, the bard was wary of any signs of demonic influence or possession. "No way our spectral woman scorned going to reappear to haunt us?"

"No. Banishment and proper burial should put her to rest." Geralt called over the barkeep and ordered food, like it was simple and easy. Her dazzling green eyes sparkled, and she winked and flirted with the Witcher, not the bard, but that didn’t seem very right at all. More unbelievable, he even remembered that Jaskier enjoyed hard-boiled eggs. 

Every moment his blue eyes were peering deeper into Geralt’s face. Maybe this was a Doppler trying to take the man’s place? 

Jaskier tried to ward off his own gut feeling, because his gut feelings also told him to touch dead bodies and follow a Witcher around the Continent, but stayed on the inquisitive offensive. "What do you reckon the whole story is with her?" The question wasn’t just about grilling this possible not-Geralt. He did want to know the man’s take on what they dealt with; it was an unpleasant sort of experience, dealing with a young woman's trauma. Yet Jaskier couldn't resist trying to piece the full picture together, like a puzzle begging to be filled. 

The Witcher, ever uninterested, just raised an eyebrow. 

Okay, maybe this was Geralt. But it didn’t make him less curious. "I just mean, why kill her? Jealousy? Abortion overkill? Food?"

The pretty barkeep brought over a decent spread for a town with a useless, uncultured mayor. There were slices from a fresh-baked loaf, sweet rolls, two large sausages, local fruit, and a handful of hard-boiled eggs. While Jaskier kept his eyes trained on his Witcher, he did pop one delectable egg in his mouth. They always made him feel a sort of comfort he couldn’t explain. 

Geralt growled into a bite of bread, "It's not our problem." 

"But there is now a murderer on the loose, so there's that."

Another fierce bite. "I'm a murderer on the loose." 

A quick scan over the man clad in leather and silver, and he couldn’t say he was wrong. Especially after what happened with Tybalt. And worse, there was this more melancholy venom to the way he said that, the kind that would only get Jaskier poisoned if he asked. While Jaskier loved being curiouser and curiouser, he also liked free breakfast. Instead, he just grimaced. "Grim way to put that." 

Then, he grabbed a sweet roll. The cinnamon sugar goodness melted in his mouth (and maybe melted his mouth itself, but he wasn’t going to let first degree burns ruin the divine taste; taverns always made the best sweet things). 

Gesturing with the half of his roll left, Jaskier offered, “Why not speculate about her life?”

Unamused, those sharp yellow eyes looked at Jaskier with scrutiny. But the bard was starting to notice Geralt only got real philosophical when he looked at him like that; there was no malice behind it. "My point is, perspective matters. We don't know what happened. Better to leave it be."

"But what if-"

Geralt took a bite of sausage and swallowed. "Leave it." 

Smirking, Jaskier wondered how much trouble he’d get in if he started joking about all the sausages that had possibly been in Geralt’s mouth. 

Before he could pull off a truly wicked verbal jab, the tavern door slammed open and a disheveled man walked in, his hideous burlap hat askew. His face looked like he just walked out of the rain, but it was a hopelessly sunny day. He had the body of a young father who drank nightly beer, but he wore a smart enough shirt and had some very beautiful green eyes. 

If Jaskier was ever to grow old, he wouldn’t be the worst sort to settle down with. He looked dependable.

But what came out of his mouth was decidedly less... Pleasant. "There's been a murder in Vergen!"

The barkeep, a woman who looked alarmingly like him, now that Jaskier took notice, shot up from behind the bar and said, "Really?"

Walking over to a bar stool, he clearly was only talking to his (assumed) sister. But the pair talked so loud, someone outside probably heard their shouted way of speaking. Maybe it came with the business. "Ya, Katcha. Nobody knows much, but rumors is there's a vampire in town."

Jaskier didn’t mean to, because it probably meant he was a sick and twisted person, but his face lit up like the damned sun that woke him up. Hitting Geralt’s eyes several times, he smiled at him. "Y'see? Curiosity exists for a reason, Geralt."

Geralt’s eyes fell down to his food, shaking his head. "It exists to be ignored, otherwise you attract this sort of shit."

Jaskier pouted. That wasn’t the kind of answer he wanted. He wanted adventure, mystery, something to write home about. 

Well, write to himself about. One does strange things to entertain themselves in their old age. 

Jaskier tried to appeal to Geralt’s softer, chivalrous side that he hid under mountains of aged, stubborn forest muck. “But wouldn't you want to find sweet Emily's killer? Her father was devastated. And a vampire serial killer sounds like Witcher work to me."

"Fuck you."

"Are you mad because you’d have to travel to Vergen or because I'm right?" Geralt didn’t say anything, just gave him this absolute look of murder that Jaskier chose to take as a compliment. "I'll take that unforgettable glare to mean the latter. Lucky for you, your affection for me is a sacrifice I'm willing to make. I do so adore being correct." 

Finishing off the second sausage on his plate, Geralt didn’t even bother to look up. “Sometimes I wonder why I agreed to you.”

“Agreed to me, what?”

“Just you.”

Jaskier scoffed, done eating, so he wrapped their leftover bread for travel. “I know that’s supposed to be an insult, but I find it hilariously flattering.” Once he tucked the bread into his pack, he leaned his elbows on the table and tried to look as exciting as possible. Sometimes a Witcher just needed a good sales pitch, right? “Hear me out. Me, a simple bard, getting under the skin of an incorrigible Witcher. That’s a feat one could sing about.” When Geralt’s eyes narrowed enough to threaten murder, Jaskier scoffed. “Oh, don't worry. I won’t.” But then he added, a coy smile on his lips,“...Yet.”

Gesturing to the final hard-boiled egg on the table, Geralt said, “Finish up your food. We’ll need to head out soon to get there in a day or two.”

On command, Jaskier popped the savory snack into his mouth. After he swallowed, like a good boy, he asked, “So, give me your guess. Is the vampire killer Ariel or his probable new thrall, Derry?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Oh, but it totally does! From what we know, Ariel would be a much better killer, but maybe the Emily fiasco unhinged him a bit. Derry would probably be very sloppy and out of control. It’d be fascinating to see the crime scenes and compare-”

Standing up, Geralt looked down at Jaskier with the eyes of a wolf and the fists of a much more passionate man. “People are dead.”

Most days, Jaskier would be proud of Geralt showing more emotion. But for it to be about implying he was heartless? That would absolutely not fly. He stood across from the Witcher, sized him up, and informed the all-knowing “old man” of multiple perspectives. “Yes. People are dead. But me acting all horrified and melancholy about it doesn’t change that, does it? Being interested in the case might.”

Per usual, Geralt didn’t look pleased. “Hmm.” 

“I’ve come to understand you don’t like when I actually make sense, do you?”

“Let’s get going.” Geralt grabbed Jaskier’s travel bag and tossed it over his shoulder, before Jaskier could. That left the Bard with his lute. When he pulled it into his arms, Geralt added, “The job isn’t finished.” 

“I’ll ask that man for some info while you get all your baubles together.” 

Geralt grumbled, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he started taking his loud and heavy footfalls up the stairs. Jaskeir was starting to say small little prayers for each wooden step that had to bear that man’s heavy walk. 

But he had a goal, and Jaskier liked goals involving people with nice-to-look-at faces. Sidling himself up to the bar, next to the sweaty but pretty man, he asked, “My good sir, may I inquire about the gruesome Vergen affairs?” 

Those green eyes flitted towards him, and the man shrugged. “What, the rats? Because they ain’t so bad-” Jaskier was going to slap him. 

Instead, he just pressed his fingers to his temple. Good looks never inherently brought intelligence. “No. the murder.”

“Oh, yeah. What about it?” The man took a deep gulp from his mug, already filled with ale. That’s the kind of man he was working with, here. No wonder his sister had those sleepless bags under her eyes, dealing with his brilliance. 

Jaskier asked, “Know anything more than “vampires” and “dead”?”

“Not really. I rode past the guards pulling the body out of the house on my way out.”

“Anything interesting about the crime scene?”

“Like I said, not really.” He went back to his drink, but stopped suddenly halfway to his mouth. “Well, except that the house was on fire. And like I said about vampires, the man had bite marks in his neck.”

The next time he heard “like I said” or “not really” from this man’s tragic vocabulary, he was going to bite his damned neck himself. 

Taking the slowest blink of his life, Jaskier said under his breath, “... I see what Geralt meant about the frustrations of people leaving out important information.” 

Just then, the Witcher trundled down the stairs again. It was like someone let their pack of dogs loose for the morning feeding. By the time he got to the bottom, Jaskier was already pushed off the bar and waiting by the door. “Bard. Time to-” Those white brows furrowed when he didn’t see Jaskier at the bar, but a quick glance over his shoulder and he grunted in acknowledgement. Jaskier wanted to be praised for being prepared, but Geralt didn’t seem to be in that sort of mood, walking past him. He just grumbled, “Good.” 

And then they left Gulet. Jaskier hoped, for forever.

He’d rather dye his clothes in the blood of a virgin than deal with that place again. Who knew what kind of sick ideals that mayor implemented by the time they might ever come back? And worse, how many people would have urban legends about the Witcher with a slave?

Jaskier would rather fucking not deal with that. 

During the early morning part of their travels, Jaskier spent it tuning his lute and playing with a few melodies. He had an idea in his head for a somber ballad about first love gone wrong, with obvious inspirations. But those inspirations were cut short by thoughts of fanged teeth and blood drank like wine. 

Out of the blue, he asked Geralt, “So, what are vampires like?”

“Didn’t you have sex with one?”

Chuckling, there was an easy retort to that small-minded assumption. “My dear Witcher, I’m sure you know you don’t need to know much about someone to have sex with them.”

Geralt just did his ever effortless grumble-groan. 

To entice some real answers, Jaskier offered, “I’m less likely to get myself killed if I know more.”

“Stakes don’t work. Not holy water, either.” Petting down Roach’s mane, Geralt added, “Vampires also aren’t made, they are born. So your stupid theory about Derry being the killer is impossible.”

“You could’ve just told me that.”

Again, that taunting little smirk Geralt sometimes got graced his lips. Jaskier was always torn; he looked so handsome when he smiled, but it also often meant he was being a sarcastic twat. “Didn’t want to ruin your conspiring.” Then a disgusted frown took its place. “Really didn’t want you to start asking questions.”

“Can’t keep a curious man down.” 

Sighing, Geralt finally seemed to be accepting that feeding Jaskier’s curiosity was easier than fighting it. “They dislike sun, but don’t die. There are some spells and powders that can weaken them, but generally, only way to kill a vampire is to cut it up in so many pieces that it can’t regenerate.”

“Regeneration sounds... bad.”

“It is.” A look so pointed was tossed his way that Jaskier could’ve sworn he felt it cut the skin of his earlobe. “So don’t get in the way this time.”

“Duly noted.” 

Geralt preferred silence the rest of the day-walk, which suited Jaskier well enough. He wanted to compose about beautiful young maidens and daywalkers themselves. There was this beautiful, wistful melody he pulled together that could go well with a soft, sad song. 

He started coming up with lyrics, about her willow bark hair and her haunted spectral stare just when it was getting dark. Jaskier was so wound up in singing random word and melody combinations that it wasn’t until he ran straight into Roach’s side that he realized they had stopped.

The horse whinnied at him and flared her nostrils. Shrugging, he said, “I’m sorry?”

Geralt hopped off the horse and tied her to a nearby tree, right by a new river they’d taken to following. :We camp here.” Jaskier set his lute down and got working on a fire. It was the new normal for them, this travelling routine. 

The witcher cocked his head to the nearby water and brushes. “I’m going to make sure there isn’t anything nearby that’ll try to kill us. Keep Roach safe. If you need to, die for her.”

Snorting, Jaskier said, “Funny joke.”

“I wasn’t kidding.”

Before Jaskier could debate his sincere concern about Geralt’s priorities, the damned man had already sauntered off at a speed that got him out of earshot way too fast. He was starting to wonder if he walked like a man on fire to shut him up.

In only a few minutes, Jaskier had a good fire set up and some stray brush piled to the side, ready to feed said fire. He also even rolled out his bedroll, a man fully prepared for a night out in the wild.

It had been so long since he was used to this, but he adapted to it like it was seven hundred years ago all over again. 

With the creeping boredom, and his fingers a little tired from all the lute-playing, Jaskier walked over to the beautiful beast he was told to die for. 

Her warm brown eyes looked at him with her own curiosity, watching him as he walked over to her side. Roach’s hair was short, but it was soft. Even her hooves weren’t too mucked, implying a lot of general maintenance. Gweralt seemed to take better care of the horse than he did himself. 

Honestly, at this point, that sounded about right for the Witcher. 

Laughing, Jaskier gently ran his fingers down her neck, the way Geralt did while he was riding sometimes. She seemed to enjoy it. That, or was just tolerating him. Either was good enough. “He really is attached to you, isn’t he?” Pretty sure he’d forever have an image of Geralt on Roach burned into his mind, he was starting to accept this horse as a piece of the man himself. “Granted, if my only friend was a horse I think I’d be pretty protective, too.”

It was funny, really. Geralt was so stiff and stubborn with people, but more than once he’d caught him smiling and chatting with his horse like she was the best friend a man could ever have. Jaskier never expected a stab to his gut, seeing a man love his horse. But he guessed it was only out of his own loneliness. 

So many people knew Jaskier the bard, charismatic and manic and creative. But they knew nothing of all 8 discarded men it took to make him. 

Maybe Geralt had something, talking to a horse. After all, a horse could never tell him secrets.Even the ones he’d been too afraid to say in a very long time. 

Stepping closer to Roach, he smiled at her. “You want to know a secret, beautiful girl?” Jaskier took a deep breath, prepared himself for bravery, the kind he hadn’t allowed himself in... 

Well, he didn’t know how long it’d been. “I haven’t been able to say this out loud in many, many years, but I was once a powerful man. A cruel one. An old one. I regretted much, but somehow I’ve made myself forget most all of it. Unfair, isn’t it? The bad guy gets to forget the awful things he’s done.” She didn’t even blink. That was... comforting, in a weird way. “I’ve been punishing myself for years. Being a bard is the first time I allowed myself real joy, and being with your Geralt is the first time I’ve felt more like myself, whoever that is.” He rested his head on her shoulder, and it felt so nice to have her just stay there, not wincing away from him. “Maybe it also feels good to help people, knowing how many people I probably hurt.” 

In the silence, he just let that settle, right next to the errant melodies of his new inspiration whirring constantly in his head. Well, that and the random flashes of a beautiful face of a man he was pretty sure he once loved. 

All of it felt so absurd and so far away and so different and he didn’t really know how to hold any of it all inside his head. 

Jaskier couldn’t help it; a stream of laughter bubbled out of him. “I know you don’t understand a word I said, but if you did, you’d probably want to get rid of me to protect him. I wouldn’t blame you. He’s a fearsome man, but no adult expects the monsters you let under your bed. “ Unsure what came over him, he felt exhausted all of a sudden. Jaskier sat down next to her, still holding an arm up to stroke her belly. “Don’t worry though. If I ever thought of hurting him, or anyone, I’m sure he’d do his job and kill the monster. I think that’s why I’m growing to like him so much. He makes me less afraid of myself.” 

Just as Jaskier was settling into the comfortable bath of those words, finally out in the ether and not trapped in his own head, there was the snap of a twig.

And just as quickly as they fell from his lips, that pool of freedom turned into a dark puddle of dread that was sucking him in deeper with each pregnant second. 

Turning his head, he saw Geralt advancing on the camp again, this confused and perturbed look on his face. Jaskier felt his heart stop; what had he done?

All just to talk to a bloody fucking horse.

Worse, those yellow eyes lit up in the night and Geralt asked him, “What did you just say?”

Frozen Jaskier couldn’t breath. He fucked it all up.

Maybe that monster was about to die faster than he thought. 

///

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Transitioning to a new mission was less awkward than i thought it would be. Props to Jaskier for being such an easy, fun narrator
> 
> Also vampires, guys. I love writing about vampires
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading and extra sparkly thanks to my patrons:  
> Danyell Jones  
> Amy Connolly
> 
> See you guys Wednesday!


	7. Darien of Vergen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They reach Vergen, site of the vampire murder, but they have some complications tracking said vampire down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr: https://incorrectly-quoted-queers.tumblr.com/

Even though he was pretty sure he could get stabbed through the chest at any moment, Jaskier tried to breathe like a normal human being. But those damn yellow eyes, inquisitive, perplexed, staring right through him, were making him itch a way he hadn’t since he last got caught in some wife’s bedchambers. Jaskier replied to his question with an ever-so-convincing, “N-nothing.”

Holy fuck, he was going to die by the hands of a handsome Witcher. 

This wasn’t exactly how he pictured it; he was more hoping for something like a sensual bath-drowning with candles, roses, and a ravishing assassin.

Maybe if he asked nicely, Geralt would at least give him a kiss or something before he got run through? Would make going a little easier. 

Across from him, though, the Witcher’s brow didn’t move a millimeter. “Hmmm." And then he just looked down at the fire, like it was no big deal. Jaskier was hyperventilating, but sure, no big deal. "Could hear your voice. Not the words. Doubt I missed much. Were you talking to my horse?”

When Jaskier exhaled, it was like his entire soul was leaving his body. So did that mean Geralt heard nothing? Trying to play the idiot, to do anything to distract from the admission of his nightmares, Jaskier focused on their mutual confidant: Roach. “Psh. You saying you don’t?”

“Of course I talk to her.” Geralt glared at him, and Jaskier wasn’t sure if he’d start bubbling with panicked laughter or kiss the damn man. He really didn’t seem to know anything. The assumption was only confirmed when he added, “She’s not interested in your dirty jokes.”

Jaskier hadn’t thought too much about kissing Geralt (though he thought about kissing a lot of people quite often) but he’d also never been so attracted to someone for being an oblivious moron, either. Even if he didn’t hear anything, he should know something was up from Jaskier’s trash attempts at levity. 

But instead, here they were.

As if on cue, that panic laughter finally boiled up through his larynx and fell out his mouth. “Why would I tell your horse dirty jokes?” Getting a hold of himself, Jaskier bound his eyebrows, put on his best smirk, anything to be the playful bard again. “If anything, I’d sing her an absolutely lewd lullaby.”

“Fucking bards.”

While Jaskier felt a weight lifting a bit off his chest, it didn’t make him feel any less nauseous. Despite his better judgment, he asked, plainly, “So you really heard nothing?”

Geralt only rolled his eyes, busy with undoing his bedroll. “No. Sorry to miss your performance.”

"Really a shame. There was a whole skit involved and I'm pretty sure Roach fell in love with me a little." 

Flopping into his makeshift sleeping arrangement, Geralt turned away from him like he was being annoying and intrusive, not a panicked disaster. He just grumbled and said, "Go to bed." 

Normally, Jaskier would have more clever quips to annoy the Witcher to sleep. However, for once, he took the silence as a blessing. It was the only way he was going to pull his sanity back together. 

Decades, centuries of keeping this secret, and all it took was a friendly looking horse and a white-haired Witcher making him feel some things and he almost watched it all crumble in front of his eyes. 

All those blank spaces in his mind felt like they were drilling deeper into his skull and all he had in between them was the cranky Witcher and the face of a man he couldn’t remember. 

It was like something kept scratching at his ribcage, begging to be let out, but there was a stronger prison there than he knew existed. And the prison was tightening, at the threat of letting it out. 

He couldn’t help but wonder, under the near-infinite stars, if it wasn’t just a slip of his memory that left all these holes in him. 

And Jaskier knew some part of him was desperate to set it free, now knowing there were faces behind those bars that could be his again. 

There was such a deep-seeded fear in him, about the man he used to be. It felt like he couldn’t breath and he’d be better off the side of some cliff, when he thought too long about it. So, no wonder for so long he chose to abandon them.

No wonder he chose to be someone very different.

Jaskier didn’t know what to do, about the bard clashing with these lost memories and the possible danger it put him in. But he had to wonder, was the danger real, or something someone put inside him to ward him away?

Listening to Geralt’s snoring, he couldn’t get his head straight at all. The way his chest constricted earlier must have turned his brain into a colossal mess, and he had no right getting himself all worked up and theoretical about nothing. 

The answer was simple. His past contained something dark and wrong and for some reason, psychological or magical, it had been locked away long ago.

That needed to be enough. 

He closed his eyes and picked dandelion petals in his head. A proper night’s rest, and he would be good as new.

That’s what he hoped, at least.

In the morning, Geralt was up and about far too early (per usual) and left the mug of tea next to Jaskier’s head (also per usual), as if nothing weird had happened last night at all. Even though Jaskier couldn’t rub the discomfort out of his bones at the mere thought of being discovered, it truly seemed like the Witcher knew nothing. 

In his infinite moronic thought-process, the bard wasn’t sure if he was disappointed that he wasn ‘t finally forced to tell the truth. 

Which was dumb, because it wouldn’t make any sense to anyone else and would probably get him killed. Jaskier had to keep his mind occupied, distract away from the murky waters of his past and his new compulsion to reveal it. 

No handsome man, lost memory or Witcher, was worthy of that. 

Instead, Jaskier busied himself with the only thing that made him forget his own faults: music. He strummed his lute, thinking of the lost girl and her vampire’s kiss. He hummed, visions of her bedroom and own lute, the journal at her bedside, the objects left behind by a woman who once thought her future was to turn from a miller’s daughter to a miller’s wife. 

It was tragic and poetic that in the end she lost both. 

Despite all his singing and noise, Geralt didn’t react much to Jaskier’s music. Much like the first day they met, the Witcher barely even acknowledged him. The bard truly hoped he wasn’t one of those tragically dull people who didn’t enjoy music.

If that was the case, he’d definitely have to break that terrible opinion of his. 

But for now, he had his newest song, “The Miller’s Daughter”, to work on. 

Remember the girl with the willow bark hair,

Her father sits lone, burning memories with fire,

Her lute sings solemn, sweet through the autumn air,

Forgive the daughter drowned by siren’s mire, 

She dreamed of love

Weather the storm, love, it’s all you can do

All she wanted was love 

Now whether she’s loved, is all that’s left true

So goes the tale of the Miller’s Daughter

Two days later, walking upon the town of Vergen, Jaskier was absolutely worn through, his voice hoarse, his brain practically melted through and volcanic. Geralt, on the other hand, seemed unphased. 

Even though his voice was still ready to strangle him at a moment’s notice, Jaskier couldn’t stand the thought of letting Geralt take the verbal lead. Especially since that meant there would be no conversations or planning at all. Ergo, he coughed, apologized to his vocal chords, promised them warm honey, and asked, “Now that we’re here, what should we be looking for?”

Almost offensively, Geralt ignored him. 

While Jaskier was normally a patient man-

Cut that thought. He wasn’t. Patience was barely even in his vocabulary. So, very on par with his normal behavior, then, he glared at the Witcher. 

Before he could speak, though, a little girl caught his eye, one playing with a frog in the dirt. She had this cherub little smile on her face, and the daintiest little fingers. Even though her plump cheeks were covered in dirt and her dark black eyes were the kind that could easily go from sparkling to tantrum in under a second, she was adorable. 

But just as he was ready to coo, he saw fire flicker in between her fingertips and she looked up at him, that cute smile turned into something that made his bones chill. 

“Geralt-”

Getting the Witcher’s attention was futile, though, because a cart passed between them and, when it was gone, so was she. 

A little mage lost to the bustle of town life. 

Despite the disappearance, though, Geralt was still looking at him, unamused by his sudden silence. Jaskier coughed, figuring his own magical paranoia probably wasn’t a proper distraction. She probably was just experiencing the flickers of her presenting powers. 

After all, not every sorcerer was a monster. 

So, Jaskier chose to focus on the task at hand. Easier, that way. Using his hands to gesture, he said, "I know you love to do your furrowed brow, above it all look and just stew yourself in some petulant silence, but if you want me to be useful instead of a babbling idiot-"

Hopping off Roach, Geralt tied the girl up to a stable hitch and started walking towards the center of town. "We're going to find a guard." 

“Thank you for the information/” Jaskier scanned the crowds to find a hazel-eyed woman sans helmet, but with the guard insignia on her armor. She was watching the crowds with an intense stare, but it was the kind that was cautious, uncertain. The insecurity practically oozed off her, but not because of herself. Her shoulders were stiff, her nose high, expressions of a proud woman. The insecurity came from those around her. This guard didn’t trust any of them, did she?

If Jaskier had to guess, she was likely a lower tier nobleman’s daughter who thought herself better than her family by helping common folk, but still thought the phrase common folk was good to use when talking about the villagers she helped. Nodding towards her, Jaskier offered, “What about her? She’s pretty.”

“We’re looking for information, not new ways to be a lech.”

He scoffed. If he wanted to be a lech, he would openly be honest about that. “No, you absolute dolt. She’s a pretty woman with a sword. People probably approach her more often for her looks than her abilities. She doesn’t hold herself like she feels very comfortable around the villagers. Of all the miserable looking sods around here, she’s going to be the most receptive to being asked by strangers about her job. Take her seriously, and she’ll pop open like a well-worked artisanal puzzle box.”

With an ever-prolonged silence, Geralt looked him up and down like he just got switched with a Doppler. “Hmm.”

To assuage the poor Witcher’s hunting ego, Jaskier said, “I’m a bard, I know people.”

Geralt didn’t respond. Instead, he walked them over to the guard at a brisk pace. Her eyes widened uncomfortably as they advanced, looking like she hoped they weren’t coming towards her. 

The bard almost openly laughed. If she couldn’t handle them, how did she deal with anyone less composed walking her way?

Though, he had to give her, a tall, broad Witcher advancing on them gave most humans pause. 

He did not miss the days of being such a frightened mouse about powerful people. 

Being extra grumbley and low with his words, Geralt asked, “What can you tell me about the murder a few days ago?”

“I’m not supposed to talk too much to civilians-” The look of mild disgust at Geralt’s dirty clothes would have been hilarious if it wasn’t so pretentious. Jaskier did not miss women like her from any of his forays into royal courts. 

Cutting off her bullshit before it got too awkward or offensive, Jaskier threw her a line that would actually interest her: “He’s not a civilian. He’s a Witcher.”

The guard breathed a comically large sigh of relief. All it took was a title and she was all friendly. Maybe he should toss in some random titles of his own, see how she reacted to that. “Oh, thank god. The talk of vampires has really been creeping me out.” Now that she exhaled, it was like she was trying to cram every word in a single breath. Jaskier seemed to find everything about this woman dramatic and overdone. It made him wince more, knowing he was probably much more like her once upon a time than he’d like to admit. “We pulled the man out, but he already was cold. Drank too much smoke from the fire. But he had two bite marks in his neck, fairly fresh. Means a daywalker’s afoot. Makes your blood run cold, doesn’t it, knowing they could be anywhere among us?”

Ignoring most of her conversational frill, Geralt asked, “Any leads?”

“None. No one even knew there was a vampire here until this happened.” Her hazel eyes sparkled and she leaned in closer, like she had some great clever secret. “Don’t tell anyone, but we have guessed that his hunting grounds are the local tavern. Been keeping an eye on it. The victim was the town drunk. Easy target for prowling bloodsuckers and all.”

Knowing a little too much about taverns himself, he was unsettled by the amount of people still walking in and out of the one a few shops down. “And you all haven’t warned the tavern-goers because...?”

“Well, then the vampire would know, wouldn’t he?”

With a well-deserved recoil, Jaskier knew he shouldn’t expect better. But he was hoping she was more “wayward self-righteous tomboy” than “feeding the system asshole”. He got a little more heated than he should have, saying, “And this is why I don’t trust authority figures.” Then, he tried to insult her best he could, but his cracking voice and fried brain gave him little to work with. “To think, I thought you’d be a very interesting person to talk to over dinner!”

Startled, she stepped back from them, her hand reaching for her sword. “I-”

Reaching for her sword just because a civilian was a bit much. The nerve. 

Ever the meddler, Geralt got in between them and said, “Ignore him. Thank you.”

Still heated, Jaskier ruffled his own hair and gave her the finger. If he was going to a tavern like these villagers, he might want to know that he was being used as bloodsucker bait. 

But since he couldn’t rightly punch a local guard in the face, not if they wanted to get anything done, he grumbled, gravelly, “Guess we now become the tavern lurkers.”

Geralt’s vocal choices were rubbing off on him. 

“No. We split up.”

Jaskier stopped dead in his tracks, looking back at Geralt, assuming that was a fucking joke. But those yellow eyes looked very serious. What the ever-loving fuck- “Witcher says what now?”

“I’ll save you if you’re in danger.” 

“Still not good enough. Explain?”

Sighing, Geralt uncrossed his arms and flicked a lock of Jaskier’s messy hair. “Weak, handsome bard wandering alone? Good target. A Witcher with a silver sword? Any vampire knows better than that.”

“So you’re going to use me as bait?” While he was annoyed, there were other questions also on his mind. As any sane man would, Jaskier got caught up on a certain word that the Witcher willingly used when describing him. “And can we backtrack on that part where you called me handsome, because I find that very interesting-”

“Focus.” And with that, Geralt started walking off like he didn’t just tell him he might let someone make a juicy beverage out of him. “Start looking. I’ll be around.”

But before Jaksier could complain, Geralt disappeared into the crowd. He grimaced. “How in the hell is a man like that sneaky? He’s built like a fucking brick castle, and I’ve lost sight of him. Maybe I need bifocals.” 

While he didn’t have a perfect grumble-groan like Geralt, Jaskier did sigh and bemoan all around town for the rest of the day. He talked to a local baker who said he had a wild bread-sniffer that the guards wouldn’t get rid of. And there was a barmaid who twinkled her eyes and tried to flirt, but Jaskier could tell from the winks she gave everyone else and the pristine state of her knees that those winks had no truth behind them. 

He spent several god damned hours making himself talkative and available, hovering around the tavern and the surrounding area. But no. Absolutely nothing. 

In all honesty, he was a little offended. A cute bard chatting everyone up with wonton abandon had to be irresistible to somebody, right? 

That’s it. Vergen sucked, just like Gulet. 

By the time dusk started sticking its dick into the day, Jaskier was staring down the bottom of his mug, absolutely destitute about the sad state of his evening. “I spend my entire day bored and alone because of some Witcher’s dumb master plan. Perhaps the vampire isn’t looking to suck off young handsome men.” Twirling the empty glass, he started to imagine all the scenarios that sounded so much more fun than this that he might be excluded from right this second. It was better than the dull emptiness, at least. 

He didn’t realize how much he’d gotten used to Geralt’s grumpy presence. 

Jaskier grumbled, but it wasn’t nearly as satisfying as the Witcher’s. “Maybe the vampire has more distinguished tastes to take back to his bed. Maybe Geralt is the exact kind of person he’s looking for. For all I know, they’re back in the vampire’s bed-chambers, fucking up a storm, and I’m sitting here, wasting my coin on sub-bar beer like a rightfully laughable idiot.”

After a few taps on the table, Jaskier was rightfully over it. 

Shoving away from the tragic wood cut far before its time, he left the necessary coin and got up. “Fuck it, I’m tracking down Geralt.” 

When Jaskier got outside, the sun had dipped below the horizon line, reminding him of Geralt’s own yellow eyes. 

Oh how he would like to find that asshole so easily. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed someone duck into the alley behind the tavern. Finally. If this was some fucked up game Geralt was playing with him, it wasn’t funny. Not unless there was one hell of a prize at the end, the kind of prize he doubted Geralt was the type to give. 

But, considering the circumstances, Jaskier would settle for finding him and smacking him upside the head for once. What a genius fucking master plan-

Just as Jaskier walked down the alley, though, the figure was gone. And his “I made a dumb fucking mistake” radar was on high alert. 

Groaning, Jaskier said, “Fu-”

Before he could finish his sentence, he could feel the man that appeared behind him, just as tall as Geralt, but not nearly as warm. And even better, before he could turn, the man shoved him into the alley wall. Albeit, much lighter than the last time looking for Geralt ended in being assaulted in an alley. 

The fact this wasn’t the first time, though, left a sour taste in his mouth. The vampire’s smooth fingers pressed into Jaskier’s skull. “Don’t move, human, and you won’t get hurt.” 

“For fuck’s sake, I finally stop looking for the damned creature and I get picked off like the village idiot in a horror serial. Great.” 

The nails once pressed against his skull grew limp. “You sound...” With a swift flick of his wrist, the vampire turned Jaskier around and boy, did the bard not like what he saw. 

Golden hair tied back with twine, lithe build and tall stature covered in paled, chalky skin, black eyes with a surprising softness to them, long arms always extended to others, lashes for fucking days... Fuck. 

Where Jaskier wished to leave his own vampire’s kiss an anecdote of a man long forgotten, apparently fate had other ideas. 

Breathless, he asked, “Darien?”

“Mlecz?”

Jaskier didn’t know what to say. Well, except the obvious. "Fuck."

Real quick, Darien went from slightly predatory to the smile people gave when they met an old friend from school in the streets. Except, unlike Jaskier’s slight grimace, Darien seemed genuinely enthused. Even his fangs retreated behind his teeth. "Of all people, I never thought... And you haven't looked like you aged a day!" 

There was the kicker, too; Darien, the lovable idiot, wouldn’t put together why, in the twelve years since they saw each other, Jaskier would look like the same drifter he once shacked up with for a week. 

His eyes flicked from one side of the alley to the other, desperate for Geralt not to show his damned face at the worst time. When the coast was clear, he glared at the vampire. 

This bloodsucking ex-flame wasn’t going to fuck this up for him. “Shh! It’s Jaskier now, don’t you dare utter that cursed name ever again.” The bard ran a hand through his hair, as if his now-greasied locks could grab a hold of this absolutely batshit and out of control situation. “Fuck. Pretend you don’t know me. We’ve never met. I’m some stranger that you actually did just assault in the alley way.” Leaning his head to the side, Jaskier pulled at his tunic and exposed his throat. “Here, take my neck, make it look real.”

Darien looked terrified, albeit rightfully so. That didn’t excuse the fact that now that Jaskier was willing, the vampire was being a little bitch about it. Back in the day, he’d certainly been more than eager to suck him off a little while the bard was, well...

Let’s just say there was a lot of quid pro quo involved. 

But Darien just said, “What the-”

While the man’s reaction was comforting from a "man trapped in an alley with a vampire" standpoint, Jaskier didn’t have time for Darien to be a decent person. He turned towards the brick wall of the tavern again, whisper-shouting over his shoulder, “You blow my cover and I tell the Witcher with me that you like to commit arson after every feast. Now press me up against this fucking wall like you mean it!”

The only good part of this blood-curdling encounter was that Darien was tragically submissive. With the saddest, gentlest hands, he pushed the back of Jaskier’s doublet forward and into the wall.

Well, if there was one thing Jaskier knew, even if Darien was this Ariel character, this mess of a man didn’t kill anyone. He couldn’t even take control of a possibly thrilling situation without having a soft, shy, and awkward reaction. 

As a proper actor and bard, Jaskier took the reins. He shouted, using the raspiness of his voice to his advantage, “Geralt! Help!”

He could almost feel Darien’s palpable panic. “Mlecz- Jaskier, I don't understand-”

Before he could finish his sentence, though, tall, dark, and yellow-eyed appeared at the end of the alley, sword in hand. Jaskier was not going to tell him how hot he looked later, because that was something he really didn’t need to admit to himself. 

With an effortless growl, much better than anything Jaskier had been doing earlier, Geralt demanded, “Hands off the fucking bard.”

If Geralt wasn’t such an asshole of a grump, and he was a much younger man, Jaskier was pretty sure he would’ve fallen in love right there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHHHHHH I was so excited for this chapter and I'm so happy it's finally here. 
> 
> Who's Darien? Who's Mlecz? 
> 
> Who doesn't want a Witcher ready to stab a man for them?
> 
> Anyway, it's the first of the month, so its the obligatory self-promote time!
> 
> If you want to support my stories, join my fandom-heavy Discord, get early access to chapter, please go check out my twitter to become a patron! You can also get OC cameos, votes in future chapters, thanks below, etc:
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> See you on Saturday!


	8. Bad Cop, Worse Cop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Jaskier confront Darien the vampire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr: https://incorrectly-quoted-queers.tumblr.com/

Before Jaskier could even be proud of himself for taking control of a situation, it was completely out of his control all over again. 

Advancing on Darien, Geralt had him by the throat and against a wall in seconds. He pushed him so hard that Jaskier himself bounced off the bricks, and the sound Darien’s back made-

Well, Jaskier felt his insides twist. 

While he liked Geralt’s abrupt defense, he felt a little sick, seeing the panicked non-scream on Darien’s face, knowing his own fake screams led to this. 

Whacking Geralt’s arm, he said, “I think he gets the point.”

Those yellow eyes flicked to him, and Jaskier felt his spine chill. But after a growl, Geralt lowered the vampire to the ground, his hands still pressed against his jugular, just enough to not leave him gasping. “Talk. Now.”

Jaskier could see the discomfort on Darien’s face, and he knew the vampire wasn’t one for public confrontations. Hell, he wasn’t even sure how the guy worked up the gall to jump him in an alley. If anyone had asked him about Darien before today, he would have said he was a gentle little bat, with adorable, giant black eyes.

Putting a tentative hand on Geralt’s shoulder, as an underhanded apology to Darien for, uh, getting him choked, Jaskier offered, “Let’s take him back to his place. There we can interrogate and investigate.” 

As Geralt’s fingers flexed around Darien’s throat, Jaskier’s guilt caught in his own esophagus. This never was what he wanted. He just-

Well, he wanted Darien to shut up about Mlecz and Geralt back by his side. 

But seeing Darien’s dark eyes wide and desperate, he remembered how selfish his decisions could be.Too many dumb nights as Mlecz filtered through his head and he couldn’t help but scrunch up his nose. 

That past wasn’t Darien’s fault. It was his. Yet the vampire was paying for his visceral reaction to his own dumb mistakes. . 

Luckily, Geralt didn’t prolong the seething regret pooling in Jaskier’s gut for too long. Letting go of Darien, he said, “Hmm.”

In turn, Jaskier took a step away from both of them, gesturing towards the end of the alley, back towards civilization. “L-lead, the way, very strange vampire man that looks so very unfamiliar.” 

Both Geralt and Darien passed by Jaskier’s leading hand, Geralt shooting him this bemused sidelong look. He didn’t even bother to pantomime an explanation. He was way too close to Mlecz to be as charismatic as Jaskier should be. 

Thinking back, Mlecz was much more like Geralt, anyway. Brooding, mysterious, but much more willing to take monsters to bed than hunt them down. Mlecz wasn’t too... picky about who he spent the night with. 

Haunted by the images of dark make-up, washed out clothes, and a frown that drove the ladies wild, it made Jaskier grimace. Mlecz wasn’t exactly a person he was proud of. At least Geralt was saving people behind his old man grump.

Mlecz did his best to damn them. 

And to think, all the demeaning things he said to himself and even Darien once upon a time. 

With it all coming back to him, he kept rolling his shoulders to ward the bad memories away, but they never stopped nor never fell comfortably on him. How could he blame Darien for being so shocked, confused, submissive? He wouldn’t want to run into that version of himself in a dark alleyway either. 

After a quick stroll through town, Darien stopped them in front of a small house on the edge of the city center, capping the residential area of a road leading to more rural homes. What it lacked in charm, it made up for in neatness. Every window, awning, knob, even wood knot was in order.

While Jaksier found that tragically dull, it was very... Darien. An older, more responsible version. Under his breath, a mix between bitter and frightened, the vampire said, “Here.”

“This is nice.” Jaskier realized just how shocked he sounded, and while Geralt was doing his weird, disturbing sniff thing and opening the door, Darien was glaring at him. But his mouth talked before his brain did. “Why do you have something nice?” 

The bitter look Darien was giving him was honestly justified. That was a Mlecz answer. Apparently all it took was a pretty boy from his past to sour Jaskier’s charismatic sass into something much crueler. 

Frowning so deeply that if it dipped into the ocean he’d catch a Kraken, Darien said, “Shut up please, bard of the Witcher.” Jaskier could almost taste the venom in Darien’s voice. It was quite the opposite of the sweet chirping from a little bat he used to wake up to; and yet still sweeter than some of the thwackings Geralt gave him for saying something stupid, or anything he’d said to Darien thus far. 

Damn vampire couldn't fathom dropping the "please", could he? 

For what it was worth, Darien was being much more gracious than he deserved, considering he was under constant threat of a Witcher’s blade at this point. 

Geralt shoved the vampire into his own home, made him sit down, and, while he had a one-sided glare-off, Jaskier lit a few candles. 

When the bard turned back around, Geralt had put his sword back into its hilt, but was still looking at Darien like he was meat. The longer they spent in his home, the more Darien’s rage faltered towards fear. It was like watching a stubborn toddler realize, mid-silent tantrum, that this rude adult wasn’t just refusing to let things go his way. He was kidnapping him and he’d never see his mother again. 

It swallowed Jaskier’s breath so effectively that he was barely sure he was doing the whole thing right anymore. Breathing, that is. 

Not that he did much else right today. 

And to think, a little over a week ago and he was a majestically underrated bard of Posada, banking on the fact he would eventually make his big break. Perhaps that had been a better, less confusing idea. 

Darien cut through the tense silence, his voice the only weapon in his possession. “Please tell me why I’m hostage in my own home?”

Growling, Geralt asked, “Tell us why you’re going under the name Ariel and assaulting the men and women of this region.”

“Ariel?” Soft brows furrowed, Darien looked back and forth between Geralt and Jaskier. “I’m not Ariel.”

While normally he’d call bullshit on several high vampires "coincidentally" clustered in one area, that wobbling lower lip of Darien’s spoke to another truth. The last time he’d seen that was when he told him-

Well, safe to say Mlecz wasn’t kind with goodbyes. 

Arms crossed, Geralt wasn’t exactly a kind or tactful interrogator. “Then who the fuck are you?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

The Witcher grunted, as if to acknowledge the validity of Darien’s statement. “Geralt of Rivia. Witcher. That is my bard. We’re looking into the recent murder.”

Shaking his head, Darien pressed his palms into his knees, leaning forward towards them. If Jaskier was reading the man right, he was just as confused as they were. “Ariel couldn’t have done that. He’s been gone for over a week now.”

"So you did it."

Darien shook his head harder. "No. I wouldn’t." 

“Then who-”

“Wait.” Jaskier watched Darien closely, but the realization that came over the vampire’s face was like watching a tragic play unfold in an instant. His brows raised, fell, flattened. And those expressively scared black eyes turned into a well of melancholic quicksand. When Darien finally spoke, his voice was low, soft, raw. “If you’re asking about Ariel, you must know about Emily.” 

Geralt, a bit slow on the whole human expressions thing, asked, “How do you know Emily?”

“You didn’t know?” Jaskier’s heart fell through the floor, realizing where he knew Darien’s expression: he remembered it on the unforgettable forgotten man, with his kind eyes, bristly beard, the mortal who did strange things for love. The gentle little bat explained, “My name's Darien. She called me Derry.” 

“Fuck.”, Geralt breathed out the word like it was the closest thing he had in his verbal arsenal to surprise.

Flushed himself, Jaskier scraped his mind over everything he saw, read, heard about the young fool in love. And all he sounded like was a soft, kind, hopeful boy. If he knew anything about Darien, even long ago, it was that every beat of his wings begged to be a person like that.

When Geralt said Emily had questionable taste in men, it was a fucking understatement. 

Exhaling, Jaskier said, “Now thinking about her diary, it did sound like you.” When Geralt tossed a confused look his way, Jaskier realized his oversharing and coughed. Perhaps a little too loud. Afterwards, he asked, "She didn't know you were...?" 

"No. I never wanted her to get involved in any of this." 

Furrowing his brow, Geralt asked, “How did a higher vampire end up in Gulet trying to become a miller?”

Jaskier wished he could ask the same question, but with very different intonation. Darien once was an outsider who dreamed of finding his own path. Not monstrous or milquetoast, just his. How did he end up pining for the most lily-white parts of humanity? 

Rubbing his jaw, Darien pulled both knees up into his chair, hugging them close. “A few years back, I was travelling, tired of living a lonely vampire’s life. I didn’t believe in feeding off blood, so none of my kind wanted me. But then I travelled through Gulet and met Emily, with her big brown eyes and adorable freckles.” When Darien smiled and laughed, it looked like it nearly burned him, and that saccharine expression soured as soon as he got it. If Jaskier didn’t know any better, he might have thought Darien seemed close to tears. But he couldn’t be, could he? For a silly little human girl? “She was so sweet and kind, and I knew it wasn’t right. But I loved her. So I accepted the shitty fake name I gave her, Derry, and pretended I was from a nearby village. And I stayed. I just wanted to keep making her smile.”

A few feet behind Geralt, Jaskier kept feeling his heart being squeezed, watching Darien talking about loving Emily. Not because he ever had any deeper feelings for the little bat, but he just kept seeing her lute, her diary, her father. 

That was the price of loving a mortal. Not watching them die, but inevitably being an instrument in their death. 

Over and over Jaskier kept picturing that dark-haired man, smiling at him, laughing with him, looking at him with such joy and lust and love-

Why couldn’t he remember him? Who took these moments away from him, where he could grieve and feel guilty, like Darien could for Emily?

Geralt cut through his internal hauntings, asking, “And where does Ariel fit into this?”

That sadness on Darien’s face changed; darkened. The little bat turned into a real, tormented vampire. “Ariel and I grew up together. Our fathers were close, but our mothers weren’t. To be precise, my mother was a human. Maybe that’s why I became so soft.” The vampire said the word like he was biting it, tearing through it with his own teeth. “If vampires weren’t so rare, I doubt Ariel and his mother would even have bothered with me. But her son needed someone to follow him around.” 

Explained why Darien was naturally submissive, didn’t it?

Jaskier wished it could’ve been natural, not the kind of trait that came with great suffering. 

Sighing, Darien continued, “We were once- Well, I once was trying to settle down with him, too, but in a much more vampiric way.” The way he clenched his jaw hid the same kind of tears he was much more willing to cry for Emily. But unlike the miller’s daughter, not a single drop left his eyes. “After my mother died, I left the vampires I knew. I tried to convince Ariel to come with me. The others found out and called me a blood traitor- Even Ariel. Presumably, he was the only reason they found out. So I left, alone, before they could decide I was better off dead.” 

Despite all the tragedy before them that was choking Jaskier up, Geralt remained still, tall, stoic. The Witcher asked, “And how did Gulet happen?” 

“I hadn’t seen any of them for years, not until Ariel found me a few weeks ago. I didn’t know what to do. I was planning on asking Emily to marry me, but the second he came to town, she was entranced by him. And the second he knew that, he revealed his nature, our past relationship, and reveled in the fact that my beloved was fascinated with who- what- he was.

“I asked him to leave, but he convinced me that in ten years, maybe fifteen, she would realize what I was and my entire life here would be a charade. That, or she’d be trapped in a world that hated her, like my mother was.” Darien failed in his quest to stay strong, letting a single teardrop slide down his cheek. In a completely platonic way, Jaskier wished he could hold him. “I didn’t want that for her, I wanted her to have someone to grow old with, children to raise, so I left with him. But I didn’t know he’d go back and-” Sucking in the kind of breath that stung one's lung with pin needles, Darien said, “Apparently, Ariel had an even lower opinion of humanity than I thought.”

Jaskier wanted to feel bad. He could see the pain in Darien’s face, the anguish. But there was something else in him, an anger he didn’t know existed, that sparked like a beacon of injustice in his chest. 

Flippant, he told Darien, “Well congratulations, you left your pregnant girlfriend to be murdered and turned into a wraith.”

When Darien’s eyes met his, they were...

Well, they were hollowed doors into his wide-eyed shock and compounding trauma. 

Jaskier couldn't regret his words more. That wasn’t something Jaskier would say; it was the echoes of the abandoned Mlecz.

The horrible taste left in his mouth wasn’t nearly as bad as looking Darien in the eyes after saying it. 

“She... She was pregnant?” His hands dove into his hair, pulled at it, a person on edge who could fly off at any moment, but not into a rage. This kind of hurt only stabbed further within. 

And yet Geralt was still just standing next to him, motionless, while he and Darien got bruises and broken ribs from the catharsis. 

Looking up to Geralt, like confessing to a holy man, Darien said, “I never should have left her. Ariel said he was just going to tell her we were in love, make her hate me, forget about me, but when he came back covered in blood, laughing about how good she tasted...” His words trickled out, the end of a river that had been dying for years. His eyes were red, his hands just kept grabbing onto his knees, and all that softness Jaskier used to see was being honed into a weapon primed for self-inflicted wounds. “I’m pathetic, aren’t I? I knew he killed her, and all I could manage was kicking him out, like some damned jilted lover.” Pressing his nose to his knees, his quiet words still hit Jaskier’s chest like they were his own. "If I had believed in Emily, I could've been a father." 

“So Ariel did kill Emily.” Geralt looked as sympathetic as he could, but still was full business. “Where is he now?”

“Look, Ariel is a monster and I would give him up if I could, but I don’t know where he is. And wherever he is, you shouldn’t go looking for him. His mother is never far behind.” 

Geralt tilted his head up, his Witcher sense intrigued, clearly. “His mother?”

“Ursa.” Jaskier was a little surprised that the little bat said the name with such animosity. He understood when he directed some towards him, or Ariel, but this woman they knew nothing about... He spoke of her like some religions spoke of the devil. “She’s an... unforgiving woman. The worst of Ariel all came from her.” Darien merely shook his head. “I doubt they stuck around. Aedirn would bore them. If anything, they caught scent of me while travelling, decided to torment me, and are now giggling over a pile of dead bodies because they ruined the “half-blood’s” life. So Emily is their fault. My fault. But I have no clue what’s going on here.”

“Hmm.”

“I didn’t want any part of this. If I could, I’d beg my mother to choose a different life, a different husband. I wish I was not a vampire. Hurting people is not who I am.”

Jaskier, for the first time in a long time, spoke up. “But Emily?”

When Darien met his eyes, there seemed to be an understanding between them, a mutual conference of their age, pain, and suffering. Even if Jaskier struggled to remember his. “She’s a mistake I won’t make again.” 

Geralt was still stern and inquisitive, a perfect “tough interrogator”. Maybe Darien would be crying less if Jaskier had been a kind one, but instead he was just an asshole. The Witcher said, “But the Vergen victim had bite marks.”

“Well, with my return to Darien, I reverted to some terrible, old habits, too. Like taking men I didn’t know to bed and drinking a little bit now and then.” Dairen looked exhausted, like the emotional rapids ride he went on had completely drained him. To Jaskier’s surprise, he turned and smiled at him. “You know what that’s like, don’t you Mlecz?”

And there it was, his heart fucking stopping. 

He wanted to be mad at Darien, maybe wring his throat, remind the little bat why he had no place to be telling others’ secrets. 

But because of Jaskier, Darien just revealed everything little thing that plagued his own heart. Was it really the vampire’s fault that Jaskier forgot that he was technically one of those secrets? 

Anyway, he had bigger concerns than Darien right now.

Like the tall, intimidating Witcher slowly turning towards him with confused murder in his eyes. It was very disconcerting. 

Geralt growled, “Mlecz?”

“Ignore him, he’s grieving and delirious and-” 

When Geralt refused to break his glare, knowing he’d cracked Darien and the soft vampire was too exhausted for bullshit, Jaskier sighed. 

And so the adventure was over, wasn’t it? “Yes. Mlecz.”

“Explain. Now.” 

Red-cheeked and overwhelmed by the haunting memory of Mlecz, Jaskier scrambled to give an answer that was honest... but not too honest. His hands gestured wildly, the visual motions helping him from vomiting mid-sentence. “It was a name I used to go by, when I didn’t like myself very much. Spent a lot of time undermining my own misery by getting on top of anyone I could find. Darien was doing the same.” Swallowing, Jaskier clenched his fists, stepped towards the Witcher, and stood his ground. “But I’m Jaskier. That’s what matters. That’s who I am.” 

Off-hand, Darien commented, "That was touching, for a man who tied me up to keep that secret to himself.”

“Oh for the love of- I was feeling bad for not being very nice to you, but now, just shut the fuck up, Darien. You’re not helpful.”

Finally, after an interrogation session of general emotional obliviousness, Geralt furrowed his brows. If only he could have stayed an idiot who couldn’t put two and two together for another fifteen minutes.... "Don't tell me this is the vampire you slept with."

“I will not tell you that, then.”

Geralt growled so low that Jaskier thought me might actually get bitten. 

The exhausted Darien finally seemed to catch up, assessing Geralt’s expression and Jaskier’s own quaking boots. He offered, "It was many, many years ago."

"How many?"

Darien shrugged. "Dunno, ten?"

Looking between the two, Geralt’s piercing, scary yellow eyes settled in on Darien and recoiled in disgust. "How young do you choose them?”

“I only go to bed with consenting adults, thank you.” 

Jaskier felt like his head was still being casually whacked by trolls, but he tried his best, saying, “Geralt, don’t. I look young for my age.” 

Another wave of realization came over the Witcher’s face, those brows shooting upwards now. “Wait. So you knew him in the alley?”

Worse. This was worse. But he couldn’t exactly pull together a good lie at this point. Not with the multiple head and heart thwackings, at least. One sigh and Jaskier admitted, “...Yes.”

“Fuck.” 

“Geralt, I’m sorry-”

The bard was cut off, though, by Darien’s table bursting into flames. 

When Jaskier looked back to the little bat, he was back to his old tricks. He wasn’t a tall man with a golden mane anymore; Darien had turned into a little nocturnal mammal with sun-kissed fur. And before Jaskier could even say anything, a goodbye or to alert Geralt, Darien flew out his own window. 

Darien flying off was the least of their concerns, though, as another table spontaneously combusted, Geralt turned towards it. Between the fire and Darien’s dissapearance, he said, ”Fuck.”

That was about right. 

Where Jaskier normally was the first to fuck off in a dangerous situation, he found himself frozen, staring at the flames. They felt too familiar, too charged with kinetic power. 

These were mage flames, not natural ones. 

And as he swallowed, Jaskier was afraid to know why he knew that, why he could practically feel them on his skin. He knew a fair bit about spells, but he shouldn’t know this one. Not in the way where every one of his nerve endings remembered it and seized up. 

When the fire started spreading across the room, Geralt grabbed the immobilized bard by the collar. Jaskier couldn’t even say anything before Geralt was dragging him, shutting up his windpipe real good. And then the Witcher hurdled them towards the only exit that didn’t have encroaching flames: the final window to the right. 

Geralt went first, but after the glass shattered, cut the Witcher’s skin, he sent his arm back through and took hold of Jaskier. Pulling him out, Geralt patted Jaskier off before walking off, towards the center of town.

Jaskier had to run to follow him, which he did pretty jankily, considering his nervous system still smelled mage smoke. The second he finally caught up, Geralt graced him with an ever-annoying grumble-groan. “Don’t keep secrets from me.”

“You’re right. I made a mistake. I’m not proud of my past; I'd prefer to forget it. But I don’t talk about it with anyone, Geralt. Why would you be any different?”

When Geralt growled, it was like the bard saw red. 

Jaskier was already tired of this conversation; tired of bringing up Mlecz, Darien, the lot of it. He was tired of remembering fire on his skin and not knowing why. If there was any part of his past he wanted to dredge up, it wasn’t the parts he remembered and hated. There was so much more that was missing.

So why the fuck did they have to talk about Mlecz? 

And what gave the Witcher the right to demand it from him, anyway? 

Scoffing, Jaskier threw his hands up in the air at Geralt’s own enigmatic nature. This bitch was not allowed to be so bitter and cranky right now. “Don’t fucking do that! You don’t share your past with me. Are you saying you wanted me to tell you I spent a good portion of my life flitting from town to town, fucking men and women so I’d have a bed to sleep in every night? Not that I didn’t enjoy the sex, but my intentions were all a little fucked up back then. Did you want me to go into great detail about it, how I lived to be naked on Darien’s bed and have blood sucked out of me and his words telling me he wanted me because it would be the first time I felt something in weeks? And I still treated him like shit at the end because I wanted to hurt people before anyone could hurt me?” His breath heavy, tumbling out of his chest like an intermittent landslide, Jaskier crossed his arms, glaring up at the Witcher trapped in a standstill. “Right. I didn’t think you did.” 

“Tell me when they matter.” Geralt wouldn’t look at him, though, like there was another dumb reason he was bothered. Emphasis on dumb. “Don’t hide them until things are on fucking fire.” 

Most days, he’d be fascinated by an avoidant, scratchy-toned Witcher. But today?

Today, he was fucking over it, just like he was over every reminder of Darien and Mlecz. 

He wished the little bat the best, especially after the torment he went through, but he hoped to never see his pretty, pale face ever again. 

Instead, all he could do was keep yelling. 

“Fucking fine!” Jaskier couldn’t really regulate the volume of his voice, but he added, for good measure towards not keeping any secrets, “Well then you probably want to know I saw a child using fire magic when we walked into town today and didn’t get the time to tell you!”

“Now that is useful.” Geralt ruffled Jaskier’s hair, but still wouldn’t look him in the eyes. “Good work, Bard.”

Blinking at the casual Witcher walking away from him, Jaskier didn’t know how to feel. Was it that easy, staying? It couldn’t be. And it also couldn’t be so simple to be forgiven. 

And even if Geralt was acting like things were fine, he couldn’t help but notice that Geralt wouldn’t look at him. 

He glanced back at the raging inferno of what used to be Darien’s house, burning away the vampire’s last quaint tie to humanity. 

With nothing left to say, and so much confusion like a wildfire in his own mind, Jaskier said, “I hate witches. They ruin everything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO EXCITED I got to talk about the Darien reveal. Poor little bat is just trying his best, guys
> 
> And now what the hell is with Jaskier and fire?
> 
> Dude needs to get his ducks in a row (Or at least, like, the same area)
> 
> PS: I know the Witcher universe calls them mages and sorcerers, and witches are a different thing, it's just to prove a point on Jaskier's distaste for them. But i wanted to let you know it was a deliberate choice, not a lore slip-up. 
> 
> Anyway, thanks so very much for reading and triple thanks to my patrons:  
> Danyell Jones  
> Amy Connolly 
> 
> See you Wednesday!


	9. A Pyromanic Imp

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr: https://incorrectly-quoted-queers.tumblr.com/
> 
> (I'm doing commissions now, fanfic and original, so check out my tumblr for more info :)

While Jaskier would’ve assumed they’d wait until morning to confront the little fire starter, Geralt just kept stomping down the street. That was the least of the bard’s concerns, though. If anything, he felt more trepidation about facing anything mage-like after his Mlecz slip-up.

It didn’t spell anything good for his mindset right now.

Sputtering, he asked, “Should we really be chasing down a child in the dark? That won’t look good, trust me.”

Geralt was having none of his thinly veiled jokes wrapped in real concern. “I have her scent.”

“Please never say that again, you’re going to get a bounty on our heads just for sounding like a complete and utter pervert.” 

“Stop distracting.” Geralt sniffed the air, and Jaskier almost vomited. He knew the olfactory hunting was a Witcher staple, but after their conversation? It absolutely felt off the table. The Witcher rattled his brain even more by saying, “Also, she isn’t a witch. She’s a mage. Witches are different. Mostly very old.”

As an easily offended bard, Jaskier just started blinking at him. 

Of all the things for Geralt to say...

Jaskier’s eyes almost rolled out of his head. He knew the difference between a fucking witch and a sorcerer. “I know you think me an idiot, but I do know that. I just don’t like them. And more sorcerers are evil hags than you give them credit. But I’m sure the big bouncy tits make that quite forgettable.”

When Geralt looked at him, his eyebrows were pinching together like if they could touch, it could bridge the gap between what he knew and the convicted snark Jaskier said. But the bard just wished he wasn’t falling down these holes of being such a serious, non-bard tonight. 

And what a thing, to now be tracking down a witch.

Pinching his nose, Geralt said, “That’s not-” The Witcher stopped mid-sentence, and also stopped walking. They were in front of a small home with a single candle in the window. He growled, “We’re here.”

For once, Jaskier was very happy for the distraction. 

In a few long strides, Geralt stood up to the door, hulking, and knocked. What a fucking sight that’d be for the person who unlatched and opened their house at this hour. 

Idiot Witcher. Jaskier squeezed in front of him, moved him slightly to the side, so a less bulky, less intimidating bard with a smile was greeting them. Granted, he wasn’t sure how much he could smile if he saw that cornflower-haired little monster.

Instead, he saw the same black eyes and flaxen hair centered by wrinkles and what seemed like a permanent liar’s grin. However, the older woman did have some flour flecking her cheeks, just like Gulet’s miller. But the miller was soft and gentle, where she looked ready to knead anyone’s face like it was a pesky handful of dough. Though he met her earlier, bitching about a window peeper, this baker wasn’t the sugary-sweet kind that one expected, at her core. A sour fucking tart, at best.

He had to commend her commitment to the fake smile, though. 

If he was a betting man, she knew exactly what kind of chaos she was hiding behind her door. 

Trying to hide a more low-born accent with a fake high-born one, creating a tragic mish-mosh of the two, the woman said, “Why hello strangers! What brings you to our little hovel this late in the evening? Would you like to-” Yeah, he was over playing nice. Stepping back from the doorway, he pushed Geralt up to the front. Her near-audible swallow was the most satisfying thing he’d experienced in days. “I-I think it's best you stay outside.”

Geralt crossed his arms. “Do you know your daughter is a mage?”

“My little Iskra is nothing of the sort.”

As if she lived to defy everyone, including her mother, he noticed the tiny blonde murderer touching the candlelight and using her fingers to shoot little flame beams at him through the window. Scowling, Jaskier asked, “Then can you explain why your little demon child is menacingly sparking her fingers at me?”

“For f-” Glancing at the glass panes, her fake smile completely caved in, a pretty little landslide that fell all the way down her face. Her play-acting dead, she crossed her arms and glared up at them. “Okay, fine, Iskra has powers. But she ain’t hurting anyone.”

Jaskier shook his head, thinking of that tortured frog or the dead men or Darien. And especially that creepy little smirk the pint-sized fire hazard had going on. He countered, “Also false.”

“Someone’s been setting houses ablaze,” Geralt explained, like this was all still business-like and not a dueling stand-off between a Witcher, bard, and a frowning woman with a budding fire mage for a daughter/guard dog.

She rolled her eyes. “We all have matches and candles, don’t we? It could be anyone.”

Even though Jaskier was annoyed too, he did really enjoy hearing Geralt constantly growl at this woman. “Not mage fire.” 

“Does it matter when the monsters are vagrants and bloody vampire stock?” Geralt’s arms flexed and she got this bizarre, confident smile. She did realize she was still talking to a Witcher, right? The kind that could snap her in half? “Ah, thought a lowly peasant wouldn’t know? Vampires are a blight to the Continent. If my Iskra is taking them out, I’d say that makes her an upstanding citizen.” 

On behalf of every decent or at least morally gray bloodsucker he’d ever meant, Jaskier put his hands on his hips. “Have you ever even met a vampire?”

She didn’t acknowledge him. Her gaze waze still fixed, full-smirk, up at Geralt.

Well, he already thought she was a bitch, but that was unnecessary. 

“Vampires have killed many more, taking poor young ladies and lads all across Aedirn. The whispers have been going around for months. What is it to you if we take some back?” 

Jaskier, knowing Darien wouldn’t appreciate being “taken back”, didn’t appreciate her outlook. People really liked to play fast and loose with casual murder, didn’t they? “What the actual fuck.” 

“Don’t take justice into your own hands,” Geralt said. “Especially not the hands of your daughter.” 

“Iskra just saw monsters and wanted to protect the people she loved. Nothing wrong with that.”

It took everything in Jaskier to not set this bitch on fire himself. 

Normally he tried to soften Geralt, but fuck it. He was letting him completely obliterate her. She fucking deserved it. 

If Jaskier could snarl the way Geralt did, he would get kidnapped in alleyways less.

Or have a much kinkier sex life.

... That was an inappropriately timed thought. 

But her knobby elbows and perfect little tiny nose were still upturned, like she had anything to be proud of. He hoped Geralt made her feel every second of his verbal thrashings.

And if Geralt didn’t do well enough? He had some tricks up his own sleeve. 

Doing said snarling, Geralt told her, “She’s a child.”

“She has a gift. Is it so wrong to use it?”

“It isn’t yours to weaponize.” Geralt flicked his eyes to the imp still shooting fire at them. What was wrong with this fucking kid? Or better question, what the hell had her mother done to her? Children weren’t born monsters. “Send her to Aretuza for proper training yourself or I’ll make sure people know what she’s done.”

“You wouldn’t dare-”

Stepping forward, Geralt gritted his teeth. “Try me.”

With every articulation of the word, that unfounded confidence slid off her face. 

This time when Jaskier glanced at Iskra, the little girl looked less malicious and instead, she was tucking her face below the window-sill. It’s like the second her mother faltered, so did she. “You... You cannot do that to my Iskra! Not over fucking vampires!” 

The longer the conversation went, the more Jaskier realized that her body language wasn’t just about being defensive. It was also the way she looked at Geralt, like the vampires weren’t the only monsters.

Where everything else about her pissed him off, this sent a spear through his guts and pulled his intestines out the other side. He could see the hatred for vampires; even the intelligent ones had a culture of disregarding human life. Darien was more the exception than the rule. But Geralt? How could anyone make a villain out of a man who talked to his horse on a regular basis? 

Those were jokes, sure. But he’d seen many eviler things over the years. And not to be so dramatic it would make someone ill, but that did include his own reflection. 

Geralt took her reaction to him with a much more even keel. “No matter what they were, I still wouldn’t use a child to get vengeance.” 

“She’s a hero.”

“Don’t back off and you’ll make her a martyr.” 

Dark eyes wide, fist clenching, this small little asshole of a woman dared to poke her finger into Geralt’s chest. Internally, Jaskier kind of hoped Geralt would break it off for her. “I won’t apologize for teaching my daughter who deserves her love and who deserves her hate. Vampires have been gobbling folks for centuries. Her own father was ravaged by a bruxa. It’s my daughter’s birthright to burn them.”

Without giving them another attempt of a saving glance, Geralt’s pity and pleas extinguished. He backed away from her and said, “It seems you’ve made your choice.”

The Witcher went straight from her home to the guards trying to extinguish the burning inferno that used to be Darien’s house. 

Geralt said, “If you want your murderer, look to the baker’s home. There’s a child mage there who likes to start fires and a shit mother that egged her on.”

And then he walked away from them, like that’s all they needed. Poor blokes looked like they had a million questions, but they sent the runt of their sorry litter to go check it out. 

Once they were a few houses away from the whole debacle, Jaskier looked up to Geralt. His jaw was clenched, his brow was stern. Everything about him screamed overwhelmed and underappreciated. 

Where it was widely known people didn’t like Witchers all that well, for their gruffness and big pointy sticks, he had to wonder if that stuff wore on him. Not that Geralt would ever admit to it, but his brooding, big, bad wolf now had a history of hurt lined up behind him. 

Perhaps, despite being a bard and a Witcher, they had more in common than Jaskier was normally humble enough to admit. 

Sticking his nose where it didn’t belong, per usual, Jaskier said, “Geralt, I think you-”

Almost like he was expecting it, Geralt growled. “Don’t.” He nodded towards the inn, only a few feet away. “Go. I’ll be back later.” 

He didn’t know how to respond. And it wouldn’t matter if he did, because Geralt was on Roach and off to do who knows fucking what before he even could’ve opened his mouth. Not unless he started cramming words together like they were idiots in a far-too-short queue. 

So, he walked inside, alone. 

At first, Jaskier wanted to wait for him. But when the hours grew long and his head started to get heavy, he figured there wasn’t much he could do. It’s not like Geralt was going to give him a cookie for waiting up. If anything, he’d grumble at him, call him an idiot, and then go to bed like he never mattered.

That was not a conversation worth waiting hours for. 

Instead, he laid his head on his lumpy pillow, cuddled into his surprisingly decent blanket, and shut his eyes, hoping for a reset from this confusing, haunting day. 

However, his dreams didn’t have much kindness for him, either. 

In the foggy meadows of his mind, a figure emerged. The one he didn’t remember, but couldn’t get out of his head. If he wasn’t a memory-blocked fool, Jaskier would say he was the kind of man he’d never forget. It wasn’t like he was some chiseled block of man meat, but he had this gentleness wrapped in a lithe tactician, who knew enough to fight but was built even better to lead. He held himself like he was always ready to give some speech somewhere to make someone feel inspired. When Jaskier looked straight into his eyes, the color of the forest floor meeting the lush treetops, he felt sure of himself in a way he never did at any other point in his life, and he’d lived many. 

And when that handsome man looked back? The grin hiding within his trimmed beard was breathtaking. “Hello, love.” 

“You.” Coming close, Jaskier brushed his hand against the man’s cheek. It felt like something he used to do. “Who are you?” Then, both of Jaskier’s hands cupped his face. The bard was trying to scan every inch, those hard to see dimples, the scar in his eyebrow, anything to trigger his memory. But it all felt as dense as the fog at their feet. And worse, though he didn’t understand why, he started to cry. Not in the heartfelt, handsome way, but the kind that swept through his chest and made Jaskier feel like he was a sponge being squeezed.

All because he was looking at him. “Why do I feel so much, just seeing you?” 

“You’ve always been handsome, even when you cry.” The man was even a good romantic liar, it seemed. Though Jaskier couldn’t help but feel that he wasn’t. Lying, that is. “Don’t cry for me, little bird. I made my choice.” He brushed the tears off Jaskier’s face and laughed. “The things a mortal does for love.” 

“No no no, don’t say. I know what that leads to. Stay with me. Tell me what we were, what happened-”

“Just live for me, love.” Then, the man pressed his lips against his. They were soft, and as he melted into his arms, it was like he was finally getting somewhere, seeing something. A modest but beautiful room, with woven red blankets and the view of a forest turning into a field. And in a life of darkness, it felt like this man was a grasp at the sun, and if he could just pull him tighter-

But just as Jaskier reached for his waist, it was gone. Instead, the bard’s eyes opened and the unforgettable man was a few feet from him, again mangled and dead and wrong. His left eye was gone and there were maggots and-

Jaskier didn’t know he was screaming until his ears were ringing. 

This nightmare wasn’t kind, though, because his screams weren't enough. In a quick trick of movement, people started to appear before him, one by one, in a neat, haunting circle. There was a smorgasbord of auburn, white-blonde, forest brown hairs, different dazzling blue eyes, mixed with ice or dirt or seafoam. And while none of them spoke, they all seemed to be staring at him, hating him, loving him, searing their disappointment and betrayal into his very bones. 

The worst part of it, though, was that he couldn’t recognize a single one of them. 

He walked up to the closest one, a woman with auburn ringlets and a vacant smile, and touched her shoulder. Jaskier wanted to ask her for the truth, hope maybe that one of these ghosts could tell him something for once, but instead-

Instead the second his fingers brushed her skin, she burst into flames. In his horror, the fire kept spreading from person to person, swallowing them whole. In all his years, he’d never been so afraid of fire. But now, watching it engulf people he’d lost, he felt like the pain searing through his chest was not new. 

And that terrified him, more than discovering who he was.

What the fuck had he done? 

When everyone was gone, the only thing left was a burning figure of a man, his exact height and build. Jaskier didn’t need much else to figure that one out. Laughing at him, in his own sickly sweet, charismatic bard way, the inflamed Doppler said, “You’re going to burn your Witcher, too, you know.” And the laugh kept going, growing more erratic and maniacal with each breath. “It’s hilarious, really. Pretending to be Jaskier the bard, the helpless. When in a flick of your wrist you could repeat history all over again.” 

Where all of this existed to taunt him, hurt him, feed into his worst insecurities and fears, all Jaskier could say was, “What do you know about me?”

An empty void of a smile forming in the middle of his face, Jaskier never wanted to hear this abomination talk again. Because it was shameless, even reverent, in saying things he’d never admit, things he wished weren’t true. “I know that witches do terrible things to those they love.” 

///

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier's not having a great day
> 
> ...Like, a pretty bad one
> 
> Guess we'll see how this conversation with a much darker version with himself goes 0_0
> 
> Anyway, thanks as always for reading and double thanks to my super-neat patrons!:  
> Danyell Jones  
> Amy Connolly
> 
> See you guys Saturday to see how our bb bard does


	10. Real Monsters: Witcher or Witch?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier tries to fight back against his nightmare and Geralt shares some demons of his own

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr: https://incorrectly-quoted-queers.tumblr.com/

If there was one thing Jaskier hated, it was acknowledging that, somewhere deep inside him, he was just what he hated, mocked, called the wrong name on purpose to make some obstinate point that no one else knew he was making.   
He was a pretty little conduit of chaos, someone who gave their soul for a longer life.

No matter what he did or which one of him he was, Jaskier, Mlecz, Wyzlin, he always stayed a stupid witch. The kind of stupid witch who did something very wrong but he couldn’t. Fucking. Remember. 

Bristling, Jaskier said, “You know, if this damned spell wanted to make me forget who I was, truly was, wouldn’t it have been a little pertinent to smudge away that “I’m a no good, asshole magic-user full of chaos energy and doom” part? Hmm?”

Whoever, or whatever, this sick and twisted fire Doppler was, he just kept smirking like a kid at a fucking holiday party. “You know better than to think it was left there on purpose.” It sickened Jaskier to see him place his hands on his hips, fingers tucked back but unfurled, the same damn way he did it. Every time Jaskier scrunched up his nose or frowned, that void smile only got bigger. “Some things are harder to erase than others. Especially when you want the bad things that make you feel bad gone, but can’t stop yourself from keeping the bad things that make you feel good.” 

“Don’t.”

When the flame figure spoke, there was a new bite to his words. “Don’t be bitter about me speaking your truth. It’s what I’m here for, reminding you.” Jaskier seared his eyes over the figure’s skin, desperate to find a weakness, a way out. No matter how many answers he was desperate for, everything about this Doppler of him felt wrong, wicked, malignant. Even knowing he could use magic, if he needed to, didn’t make him feel safe. 

If anything, it just made him feel like a liability. After all, this thing looked like him, sounded like him. Was it such a clever copy that it cast like him, too?

Jaskier threw his arms out to his sides, unable to keep bottling up the confusion, rage, fear, a tidal wave of emotions ready to burst. “Well I don’t need any bloody reminding, not about the fact that something in this big stupid brain of mine is broken and bad! What I need to remember are these people. Why can’t I remember any of them? Why can I remember that I’ve had 8 different lives, but I can’t recall half the names I took or what they did? What did I do to make me want to erase it all?”

“Well, that’s the question, isn’t it?” The Doppler snorted and shrugged, like this was a fucking game.

Jaskier was willing to play games out there, to survive, to try to see goodness in the world. But not here. Here he would fight tooth and nail for what should be his. 

Pacing back and forth, he tried to think of any loopholes, any way he might have made for himself to get out of this. This had to be a trap in his spell he set off, right? So there had to be a way to break it. But to fill the space, he’d at least give the annoying asshole a tongue lashing. "Real clever, making me argue with myself. A version of me who’s being a real asshole, might I add. What a lark of a fucking dream." 

"Really, poppet? You’re smarter than that. I am not you, Jaskier. " The fire illusion bowed, and Jaskier didn’t like how it was even deeper, prouder, than the one he used to make crowds happy. "I'm the one who made you forget." 

The bard rolled his eyes. "So, in other words, me?" He swallowed, having to face the truth of this spell, these lost memories, and the culprit he feared was behind it all. “I’m the one who did this to me, aren’t I?”

"So, in other words, because you weren’t listening when I said I’m not you: my Pier is a much different man than your Jaskier, trust me." 

Every step he took down this road, talking to this thing that enjoyed tormenting him, he only ended up more confused. These weren’t answers. They were more and more traps. He only had so many limbs to chew off, only so much strength to break the web. He couldn’t go too deep. 

But he also couldn’t help but ask, "Pier? Who is that? What happened to him? Why can’t I remember him?" Jaskier felt like he was spiraling. "What the fuck even are you? Some bizarre, cryptic defensive measure triggered by whatever damned spell I put myself under?"

"Pier was a plain, simple, milquetoast, dull little man who definitely had the forethought and imagination for an entire, elaborate nightmare trap.” The Doppler poked his chest, and when Jaskier looked down, he flicked his nose. Like they were fucking children. “Wouldn't that be easy for you, blame it on others?" Well, if it wasn’t the spellcaster, then... As if he was reading Jaskier’s mind, the void smile soured and said, "No, you fool. I'm a conjuration made by your own subconscious. Because underneath all this sickening, noble curiosity, you're fucking terrified of me and whoever else you used to be.” The man laughed. “As you should be." 

"I need to know who I was so I can stop feeling this emptiness. To move on, be of some fucking use.” 

"I need you to realize that maybe that's the exact intention for making you forget."

"Don't speak in riddles, it's trite, even for me.” Well, if this thing was professing to be the manifestation of his deepest fears, the core creation of this spell, then he’d have to use that to his advantage. Treat the unwanted Doppler as a conduit, a djinn, to reach the true source of the problem. Crossing his arms, he gestured to the figure. “Let's get it over with: end this spell." 

"Don’t act stupid. I’m an illusion. Only you can do that.” 

Jaskier furrowed his brows. That was it. He was done with the cryptic conversation, the threats, the promises of other men in one body who he never knew. His voice hoarse, distressed, courasing against a tight throat, Jaskier demanded, "I said end it!"

The Doppler across from him just shook his head, like he was some idle, simple fool at a carnival. Living his entire life to entertain. 

What this bitch didn’t know was that Jaskier only entertained for coin, nowadays. 

No one would play him a fool.

Finally, the Doppler, illusion, whatever the fuck he was, sighed and replied with, "I said all of this was done for a reason, but fine. I’ll give you a little taste.” Walking up to the bard, he planted a kiss on his cheek, and his lips didn’t burn; they felt like tundra ice. “Be careful what you wished for, little bird.”

That nickname, that endearment, twisted everything around. That was what the bearded man called him. Unfortunately, that was the moment he realized that this Doppler was the one who knew everything, and the bard was a child petulantly stomping his foot at an old man’s game.

He had no fucking clue what he was doing, or what he was asking for.

Jaskier’s determination sunk through his stomach, through the floor, as the fiery figure raised its hand. Unsteady, his heart stumbling through his chest, he asked, “Be careful about wha-” 

And then the fire snapped and collapsed to the ground. 

That would have been fine enough of a dumb little parlor trick, if the flames didn’t start spreading around him. And in a dark wave, the fog dissipated and showed him a meager little bedroom with wood panel walls, a bed with red sheets. In the corner there was a pile of instruments: a guitar, a flute, a tamborine, all stacked haphazardly. And the window showed a sky with very few stars and a blood red moon.

All of it was one fire. 

At his feet was the woman with auburn ringlets from before, her eyes closed, her breathing low. He collapsed to his knees. This couldn’t be happening. A new vision of a different horrible thing?

Suddenly, the woman was gasping for air, her golden eyes wide open. He reached for her, desperate to help her, but when his fingers touched her cheek-  
Jaskier realized he was on fire, too.

When his hands touched her face, it started to melt under his fingertips, like a wax candle. But it wasn’t a candle, it was her skin and her bones and she couldn’t even scream before it was melting down her damned throat. 

Yeah, he couldn’t fucking breath either. If anything, it just made him sick. 

This wasn’t the bearded man, the kind of pain that branded into his bones, but he could still feel his heart twist, his fondness for her stab a new knife in his back. It’s just that the person betraying him always seemed to be... Well, him. 

He loved her, once. Whoever she was.

That knife only twisted harder when a shrill scream came from across the room. A little girl, strawberry blonde with freckles on her nose, was crying and shrieking into a little stuffed owl. Jaskier’s mouth fell open, but he had nothing to say. 

At least, he thought he did. But eventually the ringing in his ears made him realize the screaming was a duet. 

Someone grabbed his shoulder. When ihe turned, it was the bearded man with the beautiful hazel eyes. “Jaskier?” He stroked his cheek, held onto his shoulders, tight, like they were holding him together. “Jaskier, wake up!” 

“I can’t-”

His handsome stranger who he wanted to remember shook his head. “You can.” And no matter how much warmth he felt from him, no matter how much he wanted to remember, Jaskier was far too aware that maybe it was better if he never remembered, if that’s who he was. 

A bringer of death. 

“For fuck’s sake...” The bearded man’s face started to change, and his eyes got more desperate, aggressive. He slammed his shoulders against the ground. Jaskier’s eyes opened, he saw yellow instead of hazel, and his tired throat stopped screaming. “Wake up!” Sucking in a deep breath, the Witcher let go of his clavicle. “What the fuck was that?”

Jaskier shriveled, sitting up and pulling his knees to his chest. What the fuck was he to tell Geralt? He had a fight with his past doppelganger while he was casually on fire, then had haunting nightmares of several people he possibly murdered? People he loved and couldn’t remember? 

He’d fucking commit someone if he heard that. 

Giving a shallow laugh, he said “My imagination getting the best of me.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow.

With a helpless sigh, Jaskier tried his best to give the Witcher something to sink his teeth into; enough to disinterest him. He waved his hand and gave the easy answer. “Nightmare. Mage fire.”

Much to his surprise, Geralt patted Jaskier’s arm with his hand, a gesture far more gentle than he expected from the hulking loner. However, right on cue, he recoiled from it. No matter how shit Jaskier felt, it was endearing after all the horrific-

He didn’t even want to keep noticing it. 

Grunting, Geralt tried to soothe him. “It can’t touch you here.” While he appreciated the Witcher’s odd grimace of a reassuring smile, Jaskier winced away from him. He could see his hands on his knees, and he doubted the sentiment.

After the bard winced, Geralt’s face fell in a way that didn’t quite make sense. He said, “You think I was cruel to them.”

Jaskier blinked. “Who?”

“The baker and her daughter.”

He didn’t mean to, but he laughed. 

Where the sassy, vulnerable part of him wanted to tell the damn man that this wasn’t about him, the part of him that was growing sickeningly soft for this Witcher wanted to grab his own hand back. That is, if he didn’t feel so uncomfortable with his hands.

So Jaskier just took the opportunity to talk about anyone but him and his problems. 

“What? Nononono, you did what you had to. That was a serial killer shrieking about Mommy Dearest waiting to happen.” 

Geralt refused to look at Jaskier. “You think me heartless.”

Rolling his eyes, he flexed his hand, to mitigate the shaking, and then pinched the man’s cheeks to make him look at him. Jaskier wasn’t planning on repeating it for the rest of forever. “Hold up, brooding Witcher of mine. I did not say that one bit. So listen to me again.” When he was sure he had his attention, he released Geralt’s face. Staring into his yellow eyes, that sometimes looked so severe, he now just saw a lonely man that he woke up to every day. Who now was by his side to chase the monsters away, even though he wasn’t some noble knight. Jaskier said, “Heartless men don’t give a rat’s ass about taking children away from unfit parents. Or, about bards who get stuck in mage fires, real or nightmarish.” 

Where Jaskier was pretty proud of himself, Geralt looked unmoved. “Hmm.”

“Magic is dangerous. It’s best never to forget that, and to remind people not to poke around at it when they don’t know what they’re doing. But most people aren’t strong enough to say no. You are.” Jaskier paused, scanning Geralt’s body language for some sign that he was getting anything out of this. But the man was like a fucking statue. Sighing, he added, “If you think I’d find you heartless, or leave you, or be scared of you, why do you bring me along?”

“Because.”

“Oh, what a useless answer! Because what?”

“Because I wanted to know if you would work.”

Jaskier snorted. “Ah yes, I, a portable, handheld bard, do work in the wild and the city! Just as the sales pitch promised.”

“Not what I meant.”

Sometimes he wished Geralt was less stubborn about speaking in sentences under seven words. “Then speak plainly, Geralt. Not like crypticism is your only option. Because I know better by now and I don’t have the patience at this moment to decipher you.” 

Geralt growled, but turned to face him more directly. No matter how annoyed he looked about it, he opened up. “I wanted to prove that even the people who want to go with me can’t take it. It’s always something. My eyes. My powers. The danger. On and off I’ll find a person who begs to come along, they aid me on one mission, maybe two. But then I’m a circus freak to them, who comes around town every once and awhile for their amusement. After a while I stopped letting people accompany me. You’re the first in over a decade.” 

“Aren’t I special?” He said it like a sarcastic joke, but it bundled up this little ball of warmth in him that he couldn’t quite explain. Also, he wondered how the poor idiot managed to pick out a raging fire bomb of doom disguised in flower crowns and soft songs for his experiment. 

What a luck Witcher he was. 

Geralt scratched his neck, his scowl deeper than normal. Jaskier didn’t even know someone could make it look like their mouth was ready to slide off their face. “But after you, I wonder if I should have just brought Tybalt with me. Let him try.”

Snorting, Jaskier asked, “Take the sex maniac along? That’s just asking for trouble.” While the bard thought he was pretty funny, Geralt’s raised eyebrow looked far less amused. 

At first he thought it was for the slightly uncouth jokes about a dead man, but when Geralt started peering jaskier up and down like a rotting hun of flesh, he realized it more had to do with the bard’s own bed. He pulled his blanket to his chest, quite indignant. “Hey! I’m a sex connessiuer, not an uncultured young spaz with a kink for danger.” But as the cloth fell from his fingers, Jaskier stared at his hands and admitted perhaps more than he should, to a handsome Witcher. “And I’m too much of idiot to ever leave, so don’t think me some great proof just yet.” 

Trying to change the topic from the weird bubble of warmth latching itself to his lungs, making him want to hiccup every third breath, Jaskier asked, “Do you regret him, now?”

“Not sure.” 

“Fair enough. Well if it matters at all to you, I’m thankful to be with you, no matter the trouble it’s put me in or these silly nightmares in my head. Inspiration guides me, but I was withering in Posada. Travelling with you changes-”

Geralt shook his head, like this was a story he’d already heard before. “I heard you.” 

“But I didn’t finish-”

“No. I mean with Roach.” 

All those warm fuzzies earlier meant nothing compared to Jaskier’s heart turning to a diamond lodestone at those words. If someone ever wanted to execute him, all they’d have to do was throw it in the nearest ocean. He’d be helplessly sunk.

After all, what was he to do when the Witcher knew he was a monster? And what did it mean, that Geralt knew and wasn’t looking at him like he should end up on his blade? Because from what Jaskier knew, he probably deserved it. “Oh.”

“I don’t know why you’re afraid of a bard, but travelling with you isn’t the worst thing to happen to me, so you stay, idiot or not.”

“Oh!” The crystallization of his heart cracked. Geralt had only heard the part that wounded his pride, not changed everything about him. 

That was an accidental confession he could live with. Especially since now, looking into Geralt’s eyes, the bard was thinking he didn’t really want to be anywhere else. 

Maybe it would be okay, forgetting everything he used to be, and just staying by the Witcher’s side.

Quietly, he said, “Well, thank you. I’d like that.” 

“Just don’t be too fucking annoying.”

“I will absolutely never promise that.” Geralt got off his bedside, doing that grumble-groan that was starting to sound like music to his ears, and Jaskier dramatically flopped upside down off his bed. “Too many songs to sing, hearts to be won, and hilarious quips to be said.”

“Ugh.” Geralt seemed to be finishing packing, preparing them for their next travels, now that Vergen was done setting itself on fire. “Your Miller’s Daughter song isn’t half-bad, though.”

While the Witcher was all grumpy again, Jaskier was making sure to paint his vulnerability in the back of his mind like a portrait. It wasn’t something he wanted to forget. 

Perhaps he couldn’t get the others back, but he would keep this Witcher for as long as he could. 

Chuckling, Jaskier got off his bed to stretch. “High praise.” 

“Don’t be weird about it.”

“Too late. Already thinking up a new song titled, “The Witcher Loves Jaskier’s Music”. Not quite as catchy as I’d want it to be yet, but I’m sure I’ll work out the kinks.” 

Geralt groaned, but he had the wisps of a smile on his lips. “Breakfast. Now.” He cocked his head towards their door.

Attentive as ever, Jaskier shoved everything he own haphazardly into the pack (he wasn’t known for organization) and pulled out the key from his pocket with flourish. Geralt wasn’t as entertained by his little show as he hoped, just nodding at him.

The bard lamented, “Back to single word sentences, my favorite.” Then he walked in front of him to open their door. 

However, the hallway was a little more interesting this morning than it was last night. 

Practically bouncing on her heels, her green eyes locking with his like they just entered a duel, this young woman smirked up at him. Jaskier didn’t expect a beautiful elf when he opened. Honestly, he was just dreaming of sweet rolls and a decent omelet. But those golden flecks in her eyes really caught his attention, as did the fact her face could barely reach his shoulder. Though, from the look of her, if he mentioned it she’d run him through with the intricate bow strung on her back. 

The bard wasn’t sure if he found her small and adorable or distractingly beautiful. It was a combination he rarely ran into, and he was dazzled by it. 

Before he could say anything dumb in his “desperate for a distraction” morning glow, she opened her mouth. And it was not the sweet tune of a songbird, but the undelicate swing of a short sword. “Hello, gentlemen. My name is Shashka and you’re going to help me break into a castle.” 

///

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier's mind is... a lot. It stresses me out. But getting Geralt to talk about his feelings, even a little bit, is a big 10/10
> 
> Now, who the hell is this little Shashka?
> 
> She's really bringing out Jaskier's inner Bicon.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading and double thanks to my patrons:  
> Danyell Jones  
> Amy Connolly 
> 
> See you Wednesday!
> 
> PS: Sorry if there's more typos than normal, I've been more lax on myself this week because I needed it so my editing is less than its best. Hope you still enjoy!


	11. Lying with Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier and Geralt join Shashka's quest, but the bard crosses a line

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr: https://incorrectly-quoted-queers.tumblr.com/

As if Shashka was a hustler soliciting her next victim, Geralt brushed past her like he’d rather eat his own foot. He countered her confident statement, and even more confident posture, with complete and total ambivalence. All she got was a short glance when he said, “No.” 

It was safe to say the pretty elf was less than pleased with that answer. 

She grabbed his arm like he wasn’t a terrifying Witcher. Jaskier had to admit, it only made Shashka all the more interesting. The balls she had to have on her. Metaphorically speaking, probably. 

Considering all the bullshit he hid behind his own smiles, he chose not to presume. 

Shashka pulled Geralt to a halt and glared right back up at him. A daring move, especially since she had to tip her head all the way back to meet his eyes. “Wait a second- I haven’t even told you what I want to do.”

Like she was a rag doll at a shitty haunted house made for children on Hallow’s eve, Geralt took his arm back from her and growled, “I hunt monsters, not piss off noblemen.”

To give Shashka some credit, Jaskier felt it fair to note the inaccuracy of Geralt’s dumb catchphrase. He said, “I mean, that’s not quite-”

Those yellow eyes scraped their way through Shashka, the walls, straight to Jaskier’s attempts at mediation. “Shut up, Jaskier.” Then the Witcher threw a final head shake at the elf. “I’m serious. No.”

“So am I.” Then the elf did the unthinkable: she grabbed Geralt. Again. Jaskier was a little frightened of the way Geralt wretched his arm from her once more, making her stagger. But this time, she held on tight to the fabric of his shirt and got to talking. “Short version. My family’s been kidnapped and trapped in the dungeons of an Aldersberg noble. Help me break them out. Rumor is he’s kidnapping and feeding my people to a pet of his, and I’m not just going to sit back and let them die.” And before he could rip her from the sleeve and shove past her, in his adorably unfriendly way, she pulled out a heavy coin purse from her pack. Shashka did it in the same smooth way smugglers proved their worth. Her eyes and smirk sparkled. “I also have a good chunk of coin.” 

For all his big talk, Jaskier did find Geralt’s pause at a heavy paycheck amusing. “Hmm.”

As the resident bard and travelling companion, Jaskier threw in his two cents. Though, who knew how much that was worth in this exchange. Grabbing Geralt’s arm, he leaned in closer. “This could be an opportunity for us to do some good. Also it gets us the fuck out of this town.” He gave Shashka an up-down glance, noting the coin purse, bow, and lovely cheekbones. But Jaskier wisely chose to only mention one of those aloud. “Money isn’t a bad thing, either.”

Geralt grumbled, leaning into their little travelling conference. “I don’t like getting involved with people problems.”

While they commiserated, Shashka was not amused. Crossed arms, leaned hip, tapping foot, and all. It was every pissed off woman he’d ever seen in his life wrapped up in one, annoyed little package. “I would prefer you not call the threat of being eaten alive a “people problem”.”

“She has a point,” Jaskier said and looked to Geralt. 

The Witcher scoffed, still a bitter grump, but Jaskier could tell from his straightened posture that he was finally taking the young elf seriously. “Aldersberg is a few days ride away. He’ll need a horse and we need provisions. We’ll need housing while there. Can you cover that and payment?”

“I wouldn’t go buy myself a Witcher if I wasn’t prepared.” Shashka’s eyes trained on Jaskier, and that smirk of hers turned quite a bit more... salacious. Damned confident woman even winked. “And your handsome friend can ride with me.”

Shashka was absolutely stunning, and he could listen to her confident, combative way of talking for hours. It was like an epic poem in itself, but he wasn’t sure how he felt about that kind of look. Beautiful caramel eyes and messy, curly locks that begged to be touched weren’t enough bait. After such a close brush-up with his Mlecz history, and the mysteries that pre-dated that, he wanted to keep his hands to himself.

With a glance between Shaska and Geralt, he said, “I mean, I could always ride on Roach with you-”

His Witcher didn’t even let him finish speaking. “He’ll ride with you.”

“Well then.” Guess avoiding Shashka was going to be less of an easy task than he thought. Maybe he shouldn’t avoid her. After all, when was the last time he got a properly tantalizing exchange? Long before he attached himself to this Witcher, surely. 

Switching to a smile, Jaskier asked, “Sounds like a deal then, eh, Geralt?”

A classic, comforting grumble-groan rumbled through the Witcher. “Fine.”

Like a girl who knew just how irresistable she was, Shashka flounced past them. But then she stopped abruptly in front of him, holding the loose ends of his doublet in her hands, assessing him as a prized hunt. “Perfect. So, that breakfast’s on my advocate here named-?”

The bard swallowed. “Jaskier, the bard.”

“Follow me, then, bard.” Then she bounced down the stairs before them, her-

Well, safe to say she was easy to keep an eye on, the entire way down. 

Shoving past him, Geralt added, “Don’t drool too much, bard.”

Jaskier clicked his tongue, ready for a retort, but no one was around. It seemed this morning was just the perfect kind to make a complete fool of him. 

Couldn’t quite blame them. Some days it felt like his life as a bard was just three side-steps away from foolery. 

After their breakfast, where Shashka downed more sweet rolls and sausage than even Geralt, they all saddled up their horses together. They would buy most of their provisions on a logical stop at Vengerberg, only a two-days ride South. 

Unlike Roach, who Jaskier was mildly interested in riding, Shashka’s horse, Amanita, was smaller, leaner. Where Roach had sturdy durability for all terrains, for someone who never left the temperate plains of Aedirn, this mare probably suited them just fine. Especially because she looked like a pretty fast creature. 

Jaskier did have to adjust to sitting on a horse again, though, balancing on the back half of Shashka’s saddle. He’d been shut up in Posada so long, and Geralt was such a stingy bitch about Roach, that he hadn’t ridden one in over five years. 

It wasn’t exactly like running or basic sword skills, coming back to him when he needed them.

Trying to distract himself, after they left town, he started asking questions. He was good at that. “So, Shashka, tell me about this noble.”

The elf’s shoulders stiffened, like a recoiling, hissing cat, before saying, “The bastard’s name is Rene de Aldersberg. Real full of himself, proud of his famous soldier brother Jacques and hits up all the local brothels trying to use reputation as coin. A stingy one, for a noble. However, a few months back he went from an idiot blowhard to an actual threat. My people weren’t prepared when he hit our encampment. I was the only one to escape.” She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes looking at his with that sparkling confidence she had. Jaskier had never met a mortal so sure of themselves, and not in an “arrogant idiot about to get stabbed through the throat” kind of way. Shaska said, “He’ll rue that mistake, won’t he?”

“I bet he will.”

Chuckling, Shashka caught him by surprise with what she said next. “You know, you can hold onto my waist, bard. I don’t bite.”

Even though her statement was meant to grab him by the dick, fluster him so much that it made red cheeks from pale white, that wasn’t what happened. Instead, Jaskier felt like she was grabbing him by the balls, grasping at exactly what made him least comfortable about her. 

But Jaskier also wasn’t one to be a little bitch about a flirty challenge. If she wanted to push his buttons, his mental limits, she wasn’t going to get him to act insecure and shy. That kind of truth wasn’t the kind he shared with a pretty little elf too bold for her own good. 

With a gentle, but firm, touch, he wound his arms around her small waist and got close. Bold begets bold, correct? And he was a bard, a cad, a sexual deviant. If she expected this of him, he would not disappoint. 

After all, she was a pretty nice distraction from the past he should keep forgotten, the nightmare he didn’t even want a powerful Witcher to know about. 

Smirking, Jaskier countered her attack. “You never know these days. But I won’t say no once given permission.”

A bite in her voice, a little nip that begged answer, Shashka asked, “Are you always this obedient?”

“Absolutely not.”

Ten feet away, Geralt had bothered to glance back, peering at them, and said, “If he was, he would’ve left me alone in Posada.” 

All of a sudden, Jaskier felt far more exposed for a salacious little fraud. But his small moments of vulnerability with the grumpy Witcher didn’t win the man any power over him, or secret knowledge of who he really was. 

So he could fuck right off with whatever barmaid was his style the second they got to Vengerberg, because he wasn’t too much of a cynical idiot to say no to a free distraction when he got it.

The whole broody, chiseled statue of man meat bit Geralt had going wasn’t going to ruin the little fun he was having. 

Pouting, Jaskier held onto Shaska’s waist a little tighter. “You talk to Roach, I talk to our new friend Shashka. If you don’t want to share steeds, we don’t share conversational partners, so butt out.”

Geralt didn’t push, just grumble-growled his way back to his own business, even riding a couple more yards in front of them than before. 

Even though he was unsure why, Jaskier felt his chest fall at being ignored. 

Luckily, Shashka filled the void with her fearless conversation. “So are you the old married couple type of friends or is all this a sexual tension thing?”

Jaskier groaned himself, saying, “For the love of- neither. We just both want the same thing and are trying to stomach each other along the way.” But that felt wrong, even when it was leaving his mouth, like he was sticking formaldehyde under his tongue just to get rid of something uncomfortable. So he back-tracked. “That’s not fair. I suppose we are becoming friends.” When he saw the wisps of a smirk on the Witcher’s face, he added, “Dumbass friends who won’t stop eavesdropping- but friends nonetheless.” 

From Roach’s idiot rider, there was another grumble-groan and then he rode a couple more yards forward, hopefully finally out of Witcher earshot. 

With a snort, Shashka asked, “Just a friend?”

“I don’t think I’m quite his type.” 

“I dunno, it could be kinda hot.” He could feel his cheeks warm at the thought of him and Geralt- but that was absurd. His elf companion didn’t seem to think much else of it; or if anything, was just enjoying picturing a bard and Witcher undressed. Quite the flirt, wasn’t she?

Shaska said, “I’ll just keep that fantasy to myself, then.” 

The bard furrowed his brow. Instead of Geralt, Jaskier chose to think about Shashka. That long neck, her small, rounded features, her spirit with that kind of spark you normally found in people with power. Not someone whose people abandoned their home for the mountains and were ostracized everywhere else. At least, as the human story of it went. People who lived a bit longer than that, or lived it themselves, knew better. 

Coughing, he stared into the curve of her shoulder like it could teach him secrets about the world. “But let’s talk about you. Can’t imagine how any kidnapper would manage to miss you.” When Shashka glanced back, thin eyebrows furrowed enough to make them noticeable, Jaskier realized his flirting game may not be what it once was. He winced. “I meant that to mean you’re incredibly attractive, but it came out quite wrong.”

Lucky for him, that did seem to amuse her, evident by a simple snort that echoed through his fingertips around her waist. “That’s one way to put it.” Shashka shrugged, and elaborated. “I’m small and climb trees well. But that didn’t make watching them get taken any easier.”

“Pardon my noticing, but you seem muscular and comfortable with that bow. Why not fight back?”

All that confidence in her didn’t disappear, but it hardened on her shoulders like emotionally charged pauldrons. “Takers aren’t uncommon for elves. The family rule is don’t make yourself a target, get help. Especially after my sister was attacked by some human merchant prick and his friends.”

Jaskier swallowed, but curiosity won out in the end. His voice was quieter, his hands still lighltly brushing her hip bones. “What happened?”

“She killed them all and was hung for it.”

After that, Jaskier did not ask her any more questions. He just released her waist, let himself suffer in silence for bringing it up, and then a half-hour later pulled out his lute to practice some more. 

If there was any way he could have struck out harder, he didn’t know how. Making a girl bring up her dead sister was a new low. 

They camped for the night, and conversation was sparse. Shashka was back to being a confident soldier of a speaker, but that didn’t erase the pain that Jaskier now knew was under that windstorm of windbaggedness, her steel plate of bravado. 

Suffering, just like the rest of them. 

She and Geralt talked for awhile about local wildlife, Shashka doing most of the asking and bringing up the different uses for animal and monster parts. While he wasn’t some helpless lamb, that was still far outside his realm of knowledge. It wasn’t like he ever dabbled in alchemy or potions. 

If anything unsettled him, it was just that Geralt didn’t totally treat Shashka like an endless annoyance. Perhaps after the sister comment he wouldn’t even get a distraction. But he couldn’t blame her if she went after the Witcher, he was handsome, brooding, mysterious. When lonely, those are the perfect men to dream of sweeping you in their arms without having to worry about being attached by morning. 

Nothing came of their alone time, though. 

Jaskier wasn’t sure he felt about such a hectic day going out with a whimper. 

Perhaps, though, it was better that the night went out whimpering, not with a bang. He’d had enough bangs for awhile. Jaskier even was lucky enough to not wake up from a nightmare. 

He did wake up to a mug of tea, though. 

Over the next day and a half, their time travelling together was like three abject strangers pretending they were adolescent best friends on an adventure. It didn’t make sense, but made the travelling easier.

Well, Geralt didn’t really try, just kinda sat by himself, did his own thing, fed Roach apples, but he didn’t sling insults at them either, and sometimes even smiled at their jokes, which was an improvement. 

The Witcher did, however, send some serious raised eyebrows at Jaskier during one lunch when Shashka was teaching him to defend himself. She tried first with the bow, but the bard was helpless. Particularly since, no matter how helpful she was, her attempt at straightening his arms herself was a bit off. The reach around technique of flirting didn’t work as well when the teacher was nearly a foot shorter. She did give him her spare dagger, though, a hilt of wood and a blade of classic steel, with some elven notchings. With steady hands and a smoother voice, Shashka taught him how to hold it, wave it, throw it. 

A few feet from them, sharpening his own sword and sitting on a log, Geralt just kept peering at Jaskier.

It likely had to do with the fact Jaskier didn’t need any basic lessons on how to use a blade, and they both knew that, but the bard would be damned before he told Shashka. 

Sure, the touching was nice, but she slipped into that anger less often when she had something busying her thoughts. Jaskier didn’t mind playing the fool to achieve that.

And, he had to admit, Geralt’s constant judgmental glares were the most entertaining things he’d seen in weeks. He’d have to memorize them like a child in secondary school had to memorize cities across the Continent.

Perhaps it wouldn’t help get him anywhere, but would give him a nice laugh whenever he needed it. 

But Jaskier had to admit, he was thankful when they reached Vengerberg. Geralt had been acting all distant and weird (more than normal) and warming up to Shashka had been similarly hot and cold. Scorching when she was smiling, absolutely damn frigid when she started talking about her purpose and goals again, or tired of his talking out of the blue. 

He understood, but it didn’t make for the best travelling company. 

At least at an inn, he could take a night to deal with Geralt alone, maybe have a restful night without needing the Witcher’s tea to survive, and just breathe. 

That and start composing some lyrics for his new song about spending the night with a gentle vampire. What could he say, the only good thing about seeing Darien again was remembering the sweet nostalgia of that week they spent together. It was quite a unique, intimate experience that made for a seductive musical story.

Geralt would be out for a few hours, collecting some needed supplies for a dungeon rescue, and he had all the time to himself. 

But just as he was sitting down, trying to figure out the best way to describe sex in a way that nobles wouldn’t feel scandalized, there was a knock at his door. 

Mumbling under his breath, he said, “If Geralt lost his key another bloody damn time-”

When he opened up the door, though, there stood Shashka. Just as stunning as the first time she surprised him at an inn door, but her confidence looked... different and Jaskier couldn’t put his finger on why. 

She smiled up at him and asked, “Jaskier? You deal with strings for your lute. Help me tighten my bow?”

His brow furrowed. “...Sure.” His thoughts were slow, still stuck on more delicate ways to describe a throbbing erection, but by the time he was in her room and Shashka was shutting the door behind him, he realized the nonsensical nature of her question. “Though, I don’t know how I’d do any better than you, my stringing is for a little instrument and you’re the expert bowwoman.”

“Do bards ever stop talking?” 

A little indignant about that statement, Jaskier turned over his shoulder, ready to point a finger at her, tell her that he wasn’t in the mood for bard jokes. “Well, there’s definitely specific times when we choose our words a tad more sparingly-” But when he turned, her fingers had just finished unbuttoning her top and he couldn’t find the rest of the words in his sentence. Her eyes just stared at him, through him, in complete control of the situation and relishing it. Jaskier accepted his lot in this dynamic as a tragic, lolling fish. “Like that. That would shut me up.”

Taking the few strides forwards to close the gap between them, Shashka put her arms around his neck and kissed him. But not the kind of first kiss that one writes about in a song, of its sweetness and hesitation. This was the kind that haunts dreams, filled with need and hunger and the kind of emotion that turned love-making into fucking. 

How did he get here? 

When she pulled back for a second, Jaskier expressed his confusion. “Why me? Why not the white-haired man made of marble?” 

Shashka laughed like it was a dumb question, but Jaskier saw how women looked at Geralt. He was an obvious choice, where Jaskier attracted people through other means. He was the kind of handsome one noticed after a quiet conversation, with lingering fingers under a bar table or sweet songs swirled in people’s drinks like an aphrodisiac. 

At first he’d thought maybe she liked him, but the past few days he’d accepted his role was to act like an idiot for her amusement. 

Peppering kisses down his neck, causing his body a lot of distraction of its own, Shashka said, “He’s a Witcher. You’re a human. A handsome and funny one at that. You may not be his type, but you’re mine.” Administering a bite to the curve between his neck to his clavicle, Shashka twirled the hairs growing a bit too long behind his ears. It mostly made him forget the midly-offensive thing she just said about Geralt. “This doesn’t have to mean anything, bard. Just keep me company until I get my family back. That’s your job, right? Making people forget their worries?” And then she pulled his lips to hers again and whispered against them, “Make me forget mine.” 

Before he stopped talking for the rest of the night, he promised, “I can do that.” 

Because how could he say no, when all he wanted now was to forget, too? 

It seemed there were other ways he could cast memory spells. And this kind didn’t give him motherfucking nightmares. 

For a night, he could pretend that he and Shashka were a dream, even if they were just strangers using each other to forget.

That was a lie he could live with, though. 

///

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHHH Okay I've been crafting Shashka for over a week now so I'm so excited to share her! 
> 
> She is also the root of... a lot of turning points in Jaskier, kudos if you noticed any of the hints in this chapter. So let's see how this goes O.O
> 
> Thanks as always for reading and DOUBLE thanks to my patrons:  
> Danyell Jones  
> Amy Connolly
> 
> See y'all on Saturday!


	12. The Charm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier contends with his own charms and the charms of others. Meanwhile, Geralt has some gripes about Shashka

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr: https://incorrectly-quoted-queers.tumblr.com/

Jaskier might as well stab his ribs with a blunt fucking spoon covered in spoiled yogurt, because he felt nauseaous, gutted, and a little sore all at once. 

His body may look twenty, but everything else inside was much older. And it wasn’t until he was waking up in a room where Geralt’s abandoned sheets weren’t in the bed across from him that he felt the full force of it. 

Instead, next to him Shashka was cuddling into her blankets, a frown on her face. Even in her sleep the elf didn’t look calm. But what really made him feel uncertain about his elderly status was the those damned freckles and tensed arms, ever ready to strike, reminding him he was toeing that line between sexual scamp Jaskier and reckless deviant Mlecz. 

Because was he really helping her forget or just helping her bury all the things that hurt, just like he did?

God knows doing that shit wasn’t working out so well for him. 

Jaskier groaned into the pillow. So here he was, in a bed next to someone who used him like a glorified sweat towel to wipe off her stress, even though it wasn’t on her skin, but in it. He remembered enjoying it, but it also felt like some blur, where sometimes her face looked like someone else’s and he wasn’t sure where last night ended and other people began.

Fuck. Maybe he was too old for this. 

Not wanting to spend anymore time contemplating his sliding memories, he did what he should have done last night, instead of passing out like a drunken fool (especially since he hadn’t a drop in him). The bard collected his clothes and exited, gracefully. 

As gracefully as a tragic walk of shame was, of course. Though he really wasn’t one for shame.

When he opened the door to his room with Geralt, he was not surprised that the Witcher was nowhere to be seen. Seeing the Witcher slumbering was nigh mythic; maybe one day he could convince the man to let someone else protect him. 

If he knew Witchers half as well as he thought he might, it would be a great improvement on Geralt’s life that he’d never allowed himself. 

Changing into a fresh pair of pants, Jaskier made sure the buttons were as straight and gorgeous as the day he had them sewn in. As much as he didn’t try to be too extravagant, these buttons were an exception. He couldn’t say no to a good Cymbidium design with delicate, pale green petals painted on. 

Jaskier ran his fingers through his hair, glanced in the mirror to make sure he looked as good as expected, and then locked up their room to tap down the stairs. 

And with no surprise, hunched over an egg and sausage breakfast were two bulky, black leather shoulders and a tangled mat of ivory hair. The only thing salvaging his look was that well-practiced bun he pulled the sides of his hair into, just to keep it out of his face. It was like he oozed practicality, the exact sort of man Jaskier would have normally ignored without a second glance, if their life was all black and white. But it wasn’t and in the vibrancy of day, those striking shades that told of so much more, of course. 

Whenever he got Geralt to take that nap, he’d have to thank his hair and eyes and black ichor leather for cluing him in. Though he couldn’t remember much, he was pretty sure he’d never met anyone quite like his grumpy companion. 

Maybe he’d finally even get the balls to talk about mage fire, the real one of his nightmares, if the Witcher kept keeping him company like this. 

Never underestimate the power of a man who stays. 

Just as Jaskier was ready to walk over to his unfriendly friend, another person showed her cheery little face. A barmaid, with these adorable dried corn husk braids and dimples. The poor creature kept leaning over him, trying to interest him in the secret menu that she only showed scarce customers. 

From here Jaskier could see she offered quite the buffet, but he also figured that Geralt wasn’t the type to be all that hungry at any given moment. He was pretty sure if the feeling ever struck The Witcher, he would be very clear and direct about it. 

Trying to shove his face further into his food, avoiding her prying storm coast eyes, was not that. 

After giving him a moment to chuckle to himself and savor Geralt’s absolute setting discomfort, the bard skipped over to the table and sat down at his Witcher’s side. “Geralt! Don’t spend too long eating breakfast. We need to get out of town before that awful woman finds you.”

When Geralt’s yellow eyes met his, they were already glaring. “Don’t-”

The barmaid spoke before the Witcher could stop him. Her eyes were wide, the kind of genuine, innocent curiosity of a girl who truly deserved something softer than a sulking Witcher against her breast. “Oh my! What awful woman?”

Jaskier smirked. Geralt was absolutely going to hate what came out of his mouth, and it only made his play-acting save all the sweeter. “My friend here had a very magical roll in the hay with a young lady from around here a few months ago, but alas she is now with child and keeps trying to demand my friend here marry her. But you can’t just tie a travelling wanderer down, can you?” When he patted the Witcher’s shoulder, the monster-hunter looked half-ready to snap his hand in half. The bard added, “Her brothers are being right arseholes about the whole thing though, so it's best for us to pop off after this. Isn’t that the best idea, miss--?”

“Eleanor.” Throughout the entire conversation, her face had soured so much that whatever she was trying to offer Geralt was tossed out in the bin, a bad mistake that she’d never make again. Poor girl even pulled her red woven shawl across her chest, like she needed to defend her modesty at this point. 

Modesty was lost when a minute ago her cleavage was practically perpendicular to the table, but he couldn’t blame her for wanting to retroactively change her disposition. If he wasn’t feeling so geriatric, and this was a tavern in Posada, he would’ve been rightly charmed by her bold, brave, and brash propositioning. He liked a woman who went after what they liked. 

Like Shashka?

He winced. That wasn’t what he wanted to think about. 

Straightening and backing away from their table, Eleanor nodded and said, “Yes, you probably should go after breakfast, then.”

Once the re-virginal woman placed herself behind the bar again, probably retreating to the kitchen to gossip about the scandal, Jaskier nudged Geralt’s shoulder. “And you’re welcome.” 

“Hmm,” replied the Witcher. But Jaskier was half-disappointed that the smack to the head he expected was completely absent. With a twirl of his head, he saw Geralt turning his shoulder away, curling his arm around his food like a protective animal in the face of some human benefactor he didn’t trust. 

Jaskier scoffed. "Why so repulsed by me all of a sudden? Something in my teeth?" 

“You fucked the elf.”

With that, Jaskier sucked in a breath. He sort of was hoping they could never talk about that. Especially because he knew they had a couple more days on this quest and, though he didn’t feel comfortable or proud of his behavior, he also knew he was an idiot the second anyone took their top off. 

Flattening his hands on the table, Jaskier didn’t try to hide from it. “Eloquently said.” But he didn’t like being the scolded child, in particular when he did nothing wrong and the only flaw in it all was his own uncomfortable sentimentalities. Geralt would’ve done it if he was interested, right?

He glanced up his flexing bicep, still caging the pile of sausages as if there was any threat to his dominion of them. What a fucking loon. Just because he knew Jaskier had sex, and with a variety of partners, didn’t mean he was about to fuck his breakfast. 

The bard rolled his eyes. “So what if I did? Why do you care who I spend the night with?” He amended with, “Other than Darien. I get why that one mattered.”

“I don’t trust her.”

“If you didn’t trust her, why did we follow her?”

“She’s not lying about her family. Or the money.”

Each rub to his temple felt more frustrating. Great, he stuck his dick in something a Witcher deemed danger. “But otherwise you think she’s hiding something.” Thinking of Shashka, though, with her loud emotions and visible trauma, he couldn’t believe she was in this for anything other than what she said. She just didn’t want to lose anyone else. 

The Witcher was an overly cautious kind. 

He was a little surprised himself when his rapidfire mouth came to her defense. “I get people are terrible to you, Geralt. But instead of being confused by me, can you start using me as proof that maybe some aren't complete bullshit for brains?”

“Calling yourself a saint?”

Almost doubling over from the mere suggestion, Jaskier snorted out into a full bout of laughter. “Absolutely not. If anything, I’m awful. But I do still mean well when it comes to you.” 

“Just stay away from her.”

And with that, Jaskier felt indignant, even. He didn’t like drowning his own problems in sex, but he kept doing it. It was what people did. Otherwise, there was nothing wrong with Shashka. 

If he didn’t have any more intimate moments with her, it would be of his own volition, not the bizarre pricklings of a cranky, insecure Witcher who didn’t trust anyone. Jaskier crossed his arms and said, “I won’t, but thank you for the unsolicited advice.” He was going to leave it there, but he was getting real tired of Geralt looking at him like he was some compromised asset, or worse, some idiot child that didn’t know better. Hell, he was probably older than Geralt. “If you don’t want me to get my dainty little bard ass hurt, don’t worry. I won’t. I’m an adult, who pays taxes and everything.” 

“You won’t get hurt if you keep to yourself.”

“It’s not your job to make your philosophies about pushing everyone else away into my own.” Trying to get his perspective through that thick skull of Geralt’s, that somehow got under his skin with the minimal amount of dumb words he said, Jaskier absolutely prickled. “We’re both somewhat broken idiots, as we’ve established. But I still like people. Want people. Let me at least drown my misery in company. You can keep drowning yours in blood.”

Flicking his eyes at the bard, Geralt shook his head. “I don’t-”

“You do. And if that’s how you cope, it’s fine. But don’t you dare try to force me to be like you, just because I’m the first friend you’ve had in years.”

Geralt frowned. “We’re not friends.” 

If he could kill him, without possibly setting this entire tavern on fire, Jaskier would. 

Instead, he chose to treat Geralt how he was acting: like a stubborn child bending himself ass backwards to make a point that often didn’t even make much sense. Jaskier said, “Don’t start that right now. It’s exhausting, the whole “You’re a Witcher. You don’t make friends” bit. Well then why do you even stomach me? Because I know I am not the easiest person to spend time with. Yet here you stay.” 

After the words left his mouth, the annoyance sputtered out into exhaustion. Of all things, he didn’t want to stoke himself enough to hate the only person who made him feel his life was getting somewhere for the first time in a decade.

With a sigh, he said, “I’m not in love with her, Geralt. We just spent the night together. Don’t make it more than that, because I already know it won’t be.” He stretched his fingers across the table, and he could’ve grabbed onto the other side, but he just brought his hands back to his lap. Instead, he made the choice to pat Geralt’s shoulder and offer, “Can't we just go back to the fun banter? Where I call you a manservant, you call me a slave?" His hand slid off his shoulder, but Geralt finally looked at him, acknowledged he was sitting next to him, trying to compromise. 

What a foreign fucking word. 

But nonetheless, Jaskier did it. “I promise that If you're right, I'll be the first to tuck my tail and let you say I told you so."

Another grumble groan and he said, "Fine." A few weeks ago, Jaskier would’ve been sure that meant Geralt hated him. 

Now, he knew that was the closest to Witcherly acceptance he’d ever get, and it warmed his heart. 

Huh. Groans warmed his heart now. He was absolutely pathetic, wasn’t he? 

Before they could do much more about the conversation, lighter steps bounced over to them. With her eyes sparkling, Shashka sat across from them and, giving the Witcher no time to react, she stole a sausage off his plate. “Good morning, menfolk. Been talking about me?”

Even though he knew there was a very angry man next to him, he kept things casual. “I wouldn’t tell you if we were.”

“Mysterious for the wee hours of the morning.” The barmaid very gently placed a plate of sweet rolls in front of Jaskier (Geralt probably ordered for him) and dashed off like they had the plague. 

Jaskier couldn’t even grab the first one before Shashka snatched a share. Okay, he had to admit the girl had a bit of a boundaries issue. She took a large bite, letting the icing ooze out of the leftover pastry. “Mmm. These rolls are good, but they make me miss my mother’s campfire bread. She always kept stocks of cinnamon and sugar and made the yummiest treats.” Looking to Jaskier, she asked, “Your mother ever make something like that?”

Well, he had to figure out if he even had one before that, didn’t he? But Jaskier was a master of deflection, giving her this dazzling, charming smile. “Bard don’t have mothers, we sprout out of taverns like weeds.” 

Geralt snorted, and the bard took it as a win, making the Witcher laugh. It did bring the elf’s attention to him, though, and immediately the swordsman looked like he regretted it. “And you?”

He growled, “None of your business.”

“Travelling chatter will never get any easier if you don’t respond, Geralt. Tell me anything. Was she pretty? Did she pinch your little cheeks and make you so embarrassed you could cry? Did she make you wash your hair like a normal child, before you could become a Witcher and mucked all that up?”

Jaskier interjected. Not because Geralt needed protection, but because there was something about the change in his face that made the bard uneasy. He didn’t look like a grumpy animal too hurt to trust people anymore. Now he looked agitated enough to bite. 

Sure, Geralt was far more sophisticated than the average dog, but he still deserved better than to be poked in his sorest spots. 

Perhaps Jaskier wasn’t completely certain, but Geralkt looked pretty fucking sore right now. “Shashka, stop.”

“What? I’m just asking questions.”

Very seriously, he said, “No one ever owes you their history.” As the elf’s face fell, but in the kind of way where she looked ready to fight back, he let his eyes linger on Geralt only a moment longer before lighting up for her. The full dazzle and distract tool kit would be out now, even stroking her hand over the table. “Anyway, let’s talk about me. I had a sister who really liked flowers.”

Jaskier had no clue how he remembered that, or even who he was talking about, but the second the words left his mouth, Shashka was completely enrapt, cocking her head in confusion.

“That is a very boring thing to love.”

“Not when you can speak a whole language with them.” He always knew a lot about flowers. Was this mysterious sister how he knew? One more catch of Geralt’s slow-breathing chest and Jaskier shook his head. It wasn’t the time to contemplate his murky history. Another enchanting smile and he’d have her and Geralt could relax. “Tell me about your favorite flower, and pay the price of a story about that flower, and I can tell you all it’s secrets.”

Shashka didn’t look sold on the concept, but she also couldn’t hide the little grin growing on her lips.With a roll of her eyes, she started, “Fine. When we lived in an even lower part of Aedirn, there was this beautiful bush of yellow roses-”

Jaskier listened to the elf enough to hear, but he kept more attention on the corner of his eyes, where Geralt was steadying his breath, staring into his food, like Shashka had pulled a knife on him, not a question.

Knowing what little he did about Geralt, he figured that motherhood was one of those few things that he kept close to his heart. Maybe even one of the reasons he had that hurt puppy look behind the eyes of a fearless white wolf. 

When Geralt finally caught his gaze, Jaskier slightly cocked his head.

The Witcher got his message. He nodded, short and unremarkable.

It was hardly appropriate, but Jaskier found himself smiling. Not friends, my ass. 

Unlike that nod, which meant a lot more than it led on, the rest of their next two days truly were unremarkable. They packed, geared up, and rode to Aldersberg. It wasn’t far from Vengerberg, particularly by horse. By second dusk, they were already a few miles from town. 

As Jaskier was preparing himself mentally to ride in the abject darkness with a night-vision asshole, both Geralt and Shashka hopped off their steeds. 

At his raised eyebrows, Geralt said, “We camp here.”

Jaskier groaned. “Or we could just get a room at the inn, like normal humane people.”

With her own annoyance tensing her posture, Shashka was already unpacking her bedroll. Jaskier winced. Humane probably wasn’t his best choice of words. “No, we can’t.”

Geralt nodded, as if this was easy to understand. “Locals.”

“Right. I used to live around here. Anyone in league with Rene could warn him that I’m back. We need to stay away from town until we’re ready to strike.”

Even though they were saying things that were very important to their plans, Jaskier had to groan even more. Dirt wasn’t exactly his bed of choice. Well, dirt with a little bitch of a blanket roll, but it was never enough. The stories his back could tell...“I hate it when you two are right and it means I have to sleep on the ground.”

Per usual, the Witcher promised: “I’ll make you tea in the morning.”

Shashak nodded. “You’ll need it. You are absolutely vital to our plan.” 

While Jaskier appreciated his worth being acknowledged, he figured that praise coming from two warriors on a dangerous mission wouldn’t be as likable as he preferred. Hesitant, he asked, “How so?”

“We need someone who Rene will let in through the front door.” 

Shashka then laid out a whole plan to get Jaskier in, a charming bard to charm an egotistical man, and then open up a back door for them so they could all sneak into the dungeon and save Shashka’s family. 

Even though the young elf sounded very sure of her plan, the longer she talked, the more Jaskier’s mood soured. 

When she finally stopped talking, he said, “I hate that idea.” If his frown could get any deeper, he would make it. Unfortunately, without a very sharp knife and some wild interpretation of what a mouth was, this cute face was all he had. Well, and arm gestures that would piss off any polite mother. “You’re using me like a dolled up barmaid to distract the drunk patrons while you pocket their money!”

The Witcher raised an eyebrow, the knowing kind that really made Jaskier wish for that knife right about now. If he went over to his pack, he still had that one from Shashka...

But Geralt spoke first. “You’ll be saving people.”

“Damn you, Geralt.” Jaskier sighed, saying, “Fine. But if this gets me killed, I’m haunting both of you. You’re just lucky I’m so ravishingly handsome and could charm almost anyone with my angelic voice and wonderful lute-playing. Otherwise this gambit of yours would be ruined.”

Shashka unfurled her bedroll and laughed. “Don’t worry, bard. We all know how valuable you are. You don’t have to remind us.” Then, she walked past the nearby bushes, doing a quick scan to make sure the surrounding area was safe. Over the past few days, she’d come to relish those moment to be alone and down any stray creatures. 

As she wandered off, Jaskier said, “Tell that to the grumpy Witcher over there.”

“You’re better off not dead.” He didn’t even look up from the apply he was peeling, not until he tossed one Jaskier’s way. 

Lucky for the bard, he just barely caught it. “That was almost a compliment, for you. I’ll take it.” 

Geralt just gave him that grumble groan he’d become accustomed to, and fed the next apple to Roach. They made a meal, Shashka came back, and Geralt kindly told him to go the fuck to sleep when he started to ramble as the campfire grew low. 

It was easy, closing his eyes knowing that the Witcher would watch over until he was asleep. Monsters didn’t surprise people like Geralt. That was one of the great perks of becoming “his bard” as people seemed to start putting it. 

He could live with that title; maybe even grow to like it. 

But when Jaskier thought he was enjoying the blackness of nightmare-less slumber, he was suddenly startled awake by a knife to his back and a hand covering his mouth. 

Before he could scream, he was dragged into the bushes in silence, like he never slept by that fire in the first place. 

///

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone is far too charming and I, a very awkward writer, cannot handle it
> 
> Sorry for missing a week, I'm changing my schedule to every Saturday to cope with some mental health stuff. I might post extra because I'm helpless, however I should at least still post here (and in Drunk Punch Love) once a week. But I'm so happy to be back, I love these boys (particularly Jaskier). 
> 
> Let the adventure continue! 
> 
> Anyway, thanks so very much to my patrons:   
> Danyell Jones  
> Amy Connolly
> 
> See you next week!


	13. Where Dicks Don't Belong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier faces off against his third kidnapping in a month... Why does this keep happening?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr: https://incorrectly-quoted-queers.tumblr.com/

Third kidnapping’s the charm, eh? 

When he got dragged away from the scene of the crime this time, Jaskier was starting to wonder if travelling with Geralt actually would get him killed. 

After all, three times in the span of a month? That’s an inordinate amount of muggings. 

However, when the person dragging him pulled him into a bush and started giggling, his shoulder pressed in between her damn tits. 

This smarmy-ass woman. Why did everything think it was acceptable to keep dragging him into dark places and taking him hostage? It wasn’t funny. It wasn’t cute. It was just rude and terrifying. Jaskier was ready to toss Shashka and feed her to his Witcher. 

When he finally wriggled his mouth out of her hands, he also wretched his body away. “The fuck?” He got a good look at her, and she was sincerely laughing so hard so couldn’t see straight. She’d dragged them a good 50 feet from the campsite before she blew her own cover, and if it wasn’t Shashka, he could’ve been dead by now. Frowning, he crossed his arms and stood up. “You’re an asshole, you know that?”

“Shh!” The elven woman finally stood up straight and brushed the dirt off his shoulders. Because dragging someone through field debris was just so romantic. “I thought before you play hero tomorrow, we could have a moment alone.”

“This is not how you seduce a man, I sincerely hope you don’t do this to all your bed partners.” Jaskier crossed his arms and was only walking away from the camp because he didn’t want to disturb Geralt, who finally seemed to be nodding off by the firelight. Her damned shenanigans weren’t going to ruin that. “I could’ve stabbed you, you know.”

“Geralt, perhaps. But not you.”

“Ouch.” 

“It’s a compliment. Too many people go around using their swords all reckless.” Shashka raised an eyebrow, in the suggestive kind of way. Normally, he’d be all about suggestive eyebrows, but he was still a little pissed at her. “At least, not the interesting kinds of swords.”

“I’m going to ignore the clever innuendo and go for the philosophical fallacy, Shashka: You don’t need a sword to be dangerous.” 

When they finally reached the edge of the treeline, Shashka turned to him and was gliding her hand up his arm. And he thought he was a helpless romantic tart. She wanted things to get frisky much faster than his frustration wanted to allow. “Oh I know. But I didn’t say you couldn’t be dangerous. I said you weren’t reckless. You act it, but perhaps a little too well.” 

“Didn’t know you liked to psychoanalyze people.” 

“It’s part of being a hunter. I’m sure you and your Witcher do it, too. So don’t pretend I’m some manipulative harpy.” Shashka flicked her eyes up and down his body, and that “hunter” innuendo started screaching through his head like an owl with a big fucking red flag. And yet he still kept following her. The true allure of interesting women and not waking the Witcher. “Instead, remember I’m an attractive women trying to get in your pants.”

“Oh trust me, I remember.” 

“Good. It’s easier if you remember. The first time was fun, wasn’t it?”

“Of course. You’re fiery and bold and beautiful and-” But when her hand touched his chest, getting just a bit too close, he stopped short. Jaskier realized she was letting himself turn himself into knots. She was clever, this one. That didn’t change the fact that, no matter how much of a dick Geralt was about, she was an abject stranger. The kind of abject stranger he shouldn’t be getting too involved with, like getting naked in a forest. 

The bard sighed and took her hand off his chest, careful to not hold it tenderly, but more like some rotted meat. “And we shouldn’t do this.”

Those green eyes of her caught the moonlight and sparkled up at him, like magic. “Who says? Your Witcher?” And then her hand was on the front on his cotton shirt and he wasn’t pushing her away. He didn’t know why he wasn’t pushing her away. It wasn’t a real spell, not the kind that took energy and chaos to cast. It was more like the kind of magic that helped him forget for so long. The kind of psychological magic that let him bury himself in whimsical nights with anyone you’d say yes. 

And Shashka was saying a very loud, resounding, insistent yes. 

With a soft, knowing, sly little smile, she said, “He isn’t your master, bard.”

Taking a deep breath, trying to rid his lungs of the magic she was handing to him willingly, he took a step back. Unfortunately, he ran straight into tree with roots covered with some unknown, creeping plants and recoiled. He pointed at it like evidence, though. The flimsy kind, but it was the best he had. “No, I meant I’m not sure about getting some sort of rash on my ass just because you’re in the mood.”

Shashka laughed at him, winding one of those witchy arms of hers around his neck. “Then don’t put your ass on the ground like an idiot.” Before he could argue, she put a skilled hand behind her back and untied some array of knots to make her leather corset fall away and her cotton shirt fall open. 

“Fu-” His eyes trained on the treetops. If he didn’t see them, he wouldn’t do this again, would he? “You can’t keep using the tits out trump card on me.”

Her hand found his face and pulled it down to look at her. Gods, this woman was unstoppable and hot and if there wasn’t a very logical Witcher telling him no-

No. That wasn’t fair. If there wasn’t a part of him that wanted to stop forgetting, Witcher be damned. He’d have her. But it was this bridge between forgetting and remembering that didn’t want to pick a side. 

And, well, since the Witcher was the catalyst he did have a tiny stake in it all. 

A soft finger ran down his throat to his neck, and Shashka’s eyes never left his the entire time. “Oh, but I will. And you’ll absolutely fall for it.”

When she stepped in between his legs, and he stopped saying, no, Jaskier asked, “Am I really so pathetic?” 

“Most people are. But it works to my advantage.” Her hands went to his pants, and she offered, “If you say no, I’ll stop. But we both know you don’t really want me to, do you?”

And like an idiot, he didn’t say no. If anything, he covered her mouth with an enthusiastic yes.

Half an hour later, he didn’t feel nearly as enthusiastic about the whole thing. 

“Well, we did that.”

“Congratulations, you stated what was happening out loud. Are you doing a career change from bard to abstract narrator?” Funny, if he wasn’t feeling so miserable inside. And definitely less funny considering he got his clothes on quickly like it was a damn art, and Shashka was still fiddling with the ties of her pants. 

Leaning against the tree, rubbing the bridge of his nose like he could black out the past hour of his life if he removed the cartilage, he talked about what he could: not sex. “Let me tell you, that would be a subsect of bardism, not a completely different realm of study, thank you.” When it all came out in a single flurry of breath, his torso toppled without air in his lungs. He just groaned, saying, “Ugh, Geralt is not going to be pleased with me.”

“Again with that?”

“Oh, you haven’t been here that long. We have a lot of weird energy in our dynamic, okay? It’s a very bizarre balance and I prefer to keep it intact. In a more fantastical sense, I like to think that we humanize each other.”

“Human? You two?” Shashka snorted, and Jaskier wasn’t sure if he should be offended or understanding. “Hate to tell you, but you both are doing terribly.”

But all he really could think of was one prying, bored, dead inside bard who met an angry, lonely Witcher and it changed his life. 

Not for her sake, but his own, he laughed. “You should’ve met us a month ago, then.”

“You’re cute, Jaskier, but I do not care about your domestic problems with the Witcher.” 

For a woman soliciting sex in a forest, she had a lot of nerve. “I do not have-”

“Still don’t care.” Double checks tucking her pants into her boots, Jaskier notices a smoky black bottle of liquid tied to the rim of her tall, leather footwear. His heart stalled, and he thanked years of delicate skincare routines that he was already too pale for her to notice how much he internally paled. Shashka did catch him staring, though. She cocked an eyebrow, like he was thinking something funny and cute, not about crushed lungs and betrayal. “What?”

Jaskier figured that alone in the woods with a woman with sketchy vials in her boots wasn’t the best situation to confront someone in. Coughing, she shook his head and said, “The leather of your boots looks very... nice.”

The elf snorted at him. “Bizarre one, you are. Handsome, but bizarre.” 

And she didn’t say another word, just bounced back off towards camp, like this was a very normal and totally chill thing they just did. 

Despite the danger and Witcher warnings, he was starting to get quite concerned about this woman’s slightly uneven demeanor. He found erratic cycling behavior a hazard of a busy mind, but he too often forgot that normal people weren’t supposed to be like that.   
Quite the fuck up on his part, honestly. 

When they got back to camp, she made sure he got in his bedroll before fucking right off. Said something about needing to prepare for tomorrow. Perhaps Jaskier should’ve been more concerned about the possibility of an arrow flying through his skull, but honestly? He was just happy to have a moment to breathe without her green eyes watching him. 

In the dark of the night, with the fire silently tumbling over itself, trying to gasp for breath, Jaskier tried to shut his eyes. With all his might, he wanted to not think about the forest behind them, about sticking his nose where it didn’t belong, about sticking his goddamn, motherfucking dick in places it really didn’t belong...

But the stars weren’t nearly entertaining enough to get his brain together. 

At one point he even contemplated knocking himself out with a good, blunt rock, but then remembered he’d have naked elf women, bearded men, and dopplers tormenting him. Of all shit, he really didn’t need that kind anymore. 

For fuck’s sake, why didn’t he just say no? He could’ve. He could’ve sworn he kept trying. But instead, he ended up dick deep in a mistake again. What was he going to do about it? Hell, if Shashka saw that he saw, was she plotting his demise this second? Would he have to break all his rules about magic because he still have the self-control of a fucking raccoon? This was exactly why he didn’t let himself touch the chaos in his bones, because why did the universe trust any sort of power to him?

And worse, what would Geralt think?

Jaskier swallowed, glancing over to the drowsy Witcher nearby. He traced the line of his jaw, the frown that was almost missing in slumber. Somehow, despite his many fuck-ups, Geralt kept him around. He understood his charm got him through some of that, and a few victories (like nabbing the little witch or ending the poltergeist) got him some flexibility. But by now, assuredly, the man couldn’t really want to be around the kind of mayhem Jaskier wrought. 

Where the bard understood it came with his core, he had to be on the Witcher’s final straw.

Would Shashka mean the end of them?

Despite the tiresome insecurities, the kind he was foreign to, Jaskier still wasn’t an idiot. 

He’d rather see those yellow eyes pissed, ever-furious, than dead. 

Sighing, Jaskier stood up and sat down beside the Witcher, his head lolling in light slumber, sitting straight up. Only a man like Geralt could sleep like this. He savored looking at him, stubbly and tangled, more than he probably should. 

But then he sucked it up and moved closer.

Resting his head on the Witcher’s shoulder, he took the deepest breath he could so he could make the longest, most annoying sigh he could to wake Geralt. Because boy was he fucking annoyed. 

And he had to tell Geralt something he hated to say, something that could ruin him, but something he had to say. 

When his eyes flickered open and he gave an even more annoyed glare, Jaskier said, "You were right. She's going to fucking kill us." 

///

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter is short, but it was either make this short or make an awkward stopping point
> 
> So next chapter is just going to be inordinately long so pray for me
> 
> Also sorry if there are some mistakes, I didn't really have mental time to edit
> 
> The greatest aside though, I finally ordered all the parts for my PC, so streaming Mass Effect and Witcher is officially PENDING! The parts may take up to a month to get here (with how things are and all) but they are inbound
> 
> As always, thanks to my patrons:  
> Danyell Jones  
> Amy Connolly
> 
> See you next week!


	14. The Unforgettable, Untimely Man Named...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier and his Witcher execute their plans to survive the castle and Shashka, but the bard's past throws a wrench in everything once more

"I told you so." 

Jaskier bumped the Witcher’s shoulder with his own, perhaps a little too hard, because somehow this damned man made him feel embarrassed in a time of crisis. "Fuck off, you ass." 

"What changed your mind?"

That’s where Jaskier took a deep breath. No matter how much it stressed him out, thinking he was sticking his dick in murder, he did need to give Geralt the hard facts. 

He wished that didn’t sound so much like a pornographic innuendo. 

Shaking his head, Jaskier said, "Poison. Or at least I assume it’s poison, nobody normally keeps a black smokey liquid in their boots for friendly reasons. It looked like... well, like really thick, sticky blood but not quite? It sloshed around real weird. Either way, normally you don't have that kind of shit for a rescue mission. Either she has a side quest or we're not saving anyone." With his panic laughing in full-swing, he gestured Geralt’s way. "Got any enemies?"

"Probably. But she's not going to kill us." 

"Why not?"

"It’s Black Blood. It makes the person who drinks it poisonous to anyone who drinks their blood.” 

When Geralt’s normal scowl just kept deepening, Jaskier felt this deep-seeded pit in his stomach grow. What could be worse than their lady elf trying to kill them? “I don’t like that frown.” The Witcher stayed silent, but not in a comforting way. It was more in a “shit’s going to go fucking sideways” way. The bard asked, his voice jumping a few pitches, “I don’t like that frown at all, what does it mean?”

His arms crossed over his knees, Geralt had this seriousness to him that Jaskier only saw when they were chasing down the poltergeist or breaking out of Darien’s burning home. 

The eyes of a tactician. 

Cracking his neck, he said,“Witchers normally use it in combat. But if she has it, it probably has a purpose.”

That really didn’t clear much up for Jaskier. Why would an elf want Black Blood so much? Nothing a Witcher ingested seemed exactly like a fun time for an average mortal, though elves were special in their own ways. Jaskier scratched his head, a little too tragic to be ironic. “But who in the hell might be biting-?” When his hand grazed over his neck, over the place where Darien used to bite him during their long-lost wild nights, he put it together. “OH.”

Now Geralt’s continuous scowl made a lot more sense. 

The Witcher growled, his hands clasped together. “Yeah.” 

“Fabulous, guess we’re fucking vampire hunters.”

“Hmm.”

“And pretty bad ones, because we haven’t caught or killed a single one yet.”

Finally, Geralt looked up at him with those serious yellow eyes and pierced him right through the heart. He stopped pacing, perhaps stopped breathing. “Jaskier?” He didn’t know why, but he waited for the next words with baited breath, like a damned damsel on a balcony. “Shut the fuck up.”

And there it was. He rolled his eyes as whatever spell Geralt's stare put him under broke, leaving him in tragic embarrassment. Hell, he needed to get ahold of himself. Geralt was handsome, sure, but definitely not worthy of that kind of reaction. Was he really so starved for a decent person after thinking the sweet, traumatized Shashka was actually just a murderess in the making?

At the very least, they knew her intentions were less noble than expected. She wasn’t some sudden villain but...

Well, people didn’t bring poison to a rescue mission just for fun. 

She planned on hurting people, even if she felt like it was the noble thing to do. And they were now fully tangled in her bullshit. 

In the growing silence, Jaskier said quietly, “What do we do about it?”

“Nothing.” Geralt stood up and rolled his shoulders. “At least for now. We can’t keep her to our deal if we abandon her. But be careful.” His glare was very pointed at the end and Jaskier didn’t appreciate it. 

Probably moreso because he hadn’t been careful and now Geralt proved him wrong. 

Neither of them slept the rest of the night, just rustled like silly little children trying to pretend they got to sleep. Shashka, on the other hand, passed out the second she came back to camp. 

In the morning, Jaskier had never been more thankful for Geralt’s root tea. The Witcher even slipped something sweet in it. He knew his sack of potions didn’t have much space for honey, so it was a friendly reminder that this Witcher wasn’t nearly as much of an ass as he acted. 

With the crushing weight of last night’s revelation bearing down on the two men, they had to more than compensate to make Shashka unsuspicious. Scratch that. It was mostly just him, because she expected Geralt to be a distant grump. Jaskier had to fill all those spaces with little bits of banter and wit, which was exhausting once one stopped trusting their travelling companion.

For all his dumb bickerings with Geralt, this uneasy air with Shashka made him desperately miss the silence the Witcher forced at times. It was judgmental and aggressive, but honest. 

Shashka kept throwing these little grins and smirks his way that felt so shallow now. 

As they were closing in on the noble’s manor, Shashka was getting twitchier and twitchier. By the final road, she was absolutely shaking out of her skin. “When you get there, just be careful that-”

Jaskier scoffed. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I know how to charm a man.” Though that wasn’t false, he mostly just wanted her to shut up. He didn’t need to hear her voice in his head, making him doubt himself, when he was supposed to be working the room like a bard should. 

If he wanted to keep his damn head, he wasn’t going to let some poor sexual decisions get in the way of pretending he was making even more. 

A hundred yards from the house, Jaskier waved off his companions into the bushes and continued on his own. He straightened his lute to be very obvious on his front hip (a supreme honey-trap for full of themselves nobles) and shook his hair a little to look the slightest bit disheveled. He had to look young, innocent, talented and tragic. Being too sure of himself could cause concern or run a high risk of not being nearly as delectible for a noble lech. 

And boy, did noble lechs prefer the impressionable and wide-eyed types. 

He passed a few roaming guards on his way up to the house’s door, and he took note of them. One almost stopped him, but much to his luck, the man of the home himself was sitting in the front lawn, shooting arrows at a trembling servant. 

It took him a long time to identify a noble-man on sight, but their sickly obsession with jewels and multi-colored patterns was a swift dead give-away. Considering the red, gold, and blue ensemble smeared on the man and the rubies around his wrist, he was the obvious dickwad. 

If he didn’t have such a horrific beard and this hungry smirk, his ruddish gold locks and winter lake eyes could be handsome. But the aforementioned traits kind of ruined it. 

Playing into the over-inflated act Rene of Aldersberg clearly tailored to perfection, Jaskier stumbled over his feet, blushed, and chuckled before asking, “I-I seem to be a bit lost. Is Aldersberg nearby?” If he didn’t know himself so well, he’d say he was a young, bumbling idiot. 

And since he doubted Rene was looking too deep into the ruse, he just waited for the sparkle of his creepy, predatory eyes. 

The noble turned and- ah. There it was. 

“Just up the hill.” His eyes scraped over Jaskier like a starving child licking broth from a bowl. But he settled on gesturing his hand towards the lute. “You play?”

How predictable these men were. Even though the past was blurry, it was like his skin could remember the discomfort in the air when men like them took sights of their prey. But, he was also quite sure he made a game of disappointing, and possibly even dismembering them.

Today wouldn’t be any different, perhaps just no dismembering. 

Jaskier smiled. “Quite well, actually. I’m a bard by trade.” He extended a hand. “Name’s Jaskier.”

“I’m Rene.” When the noble took his hand, he made sure to not hold on too tight. Instead, his palm connected but he let his fingers just barely float above his knuckle, his nails, promising respect and insecurity and a demureness that was so fucking fake. 

But he could tell from the way Rene was moving in closer that farce or not, it was working. 

Taking his hand back, Jaskier cleared his throat and gestured to the grounds. “Lovely place you have here. Much better than the taverns I’ve been in lately. Sometimes you play a castle, other times you play to drunken old men in Upper Posada.” There was only so much fiddling with his hands he could do before he felt like he was trying to twist them right offv, but he was trying his best to look as twitchy and meek as possible. A tall order for a man willing to walk up to a Witcher. If Geralt could see him now, he was sure even the white-haired grump would find him comically inaccurate. 

With a demure flirt of a smile, Jaskier cocked his head and asked, “Might I catch you at the local tavern later? You would be a much better audience.”

“I have a better idea. Have you secured lodging yet?” Jaskier had to fight the smirk that wanted to light up his face, because with a few innocent smiles and hair twirls like a young, flirty barmaid and he had him. It was almost tragic, really. 

Instead of betraying his cover, though, he just shook his head like the good little boy the noble was looking for. Rene’s face looked like sunlight on the coast, those bright eyes surrounded by burnt sand and cream granules of the beach. 

He wouldn’t mind going to the coast. It would be a nice vacation from running towards vampires or running from himself. 

With a toothy grin, Rene put an arm around Jaskier’s shoulders, the heavy kind that feigned kindness and security, but was really just tightening the trap-holds. “Perfect. You play for me and my friends tonight, and you can stay here during your time in Aldersberg. I’m certain we can make space for you.”

As he started being dragged towards the large house, somehow overly opulent despite the cottage style hidden underneath all its frills, Jaskier played dumb to flip the cards on the table in a more... explicit manner. “A generous offer. But can one night of performance really make up for it?”

He was pretty sure what the answer was, but he wanted to hear them slip right through this man’s immaculate grimy teeth. Rene came so close that he could feel his hot breath on his neck, but it wasn’t the kind that made one wriggle with anticipation. It was more like a fox drooling over his newest snack. “I’m sure you can find other ways to make it up to me. Your.. persuasion isn’t normally my type, but for that pretty face I can make an exception.” 

Well, clearly someone never told Rene how to not sound like a disgusting sexual predator. 

Rene only let go of his arm when they were through the front door and a guard shut it closed behind them. Once his forearm was released, Jaskier finally felt how tightly the bastard had been holding. “Tad forward, even for me...” Geralt would have to do more than just half-assed gratitude to make up for used him as a musical prostitute. 

“What did you say?” Rene sneered, but Jaskier could barely see him. Because those words, the entitlement he said them with, they faded away. 

He remembered walking into a hall like this, but with less opulent frills, more of a natural, traditional touch with family crests and tapestries and a warmth to it that Jaskier never felt before. 

And in front of him was his long-forgotten bearded man, a kinder look in his eyes, no bruises forming on his bicep, instead smiling and asking, “What did you say?”

But it wasn’t just a memory, Jaskier felt like he slipped through time. And his boots were fancier, stiffer, and his muscles were younger, angrier. He could feel a blackness in his heart that wasn’t used to the kindness of a stranger, a sneer on his own face at this older, softer gentleman daring to smile at him. 

His arms crossed under his chest, though he wanted to reach for him. “None of your business.”

The nobleman sighed. “I know you don’t want to be here. But I promise I will treat you with every respect. This house is your home now, too. So you need not be afraid.” 

“I’m not fucking afraid of anything.” Jaskier had this staredown with the man, but he didn’t even waver. Unlike Geralt, who had to stalk down through several forests to meet his eyes, this man wouldn’t look away. After a prolonged minute of terrible staring, Jaskier broke eye contact. “Whatever you say, Count.” Jaskier’s body bowed in the most passive aggressive way, and he hadn’t even known bows could be so spiteful. 

“Titles are formalities built on a foundation of entitlement. Those meant to lead prove themselves other ways.” The man pulled up the bard from his shoulder and extended his hand. With all his heart, Jaskier wanted to look down at it, to memorize every line, maybe find some truth in between each weathered callus. Instead, the old him wouldn't even look him in the eye. How Geralt of him. 

Regardless, the forgotten man said, “Call me Kam.”

Inside the shell of the person he used to be, Jaskier’s heart swelled. Kam. He finally had a name. 

But the young Jaskier just scoffed like a petulant child and shoved past his shoulder. “Well, don’t call me anything.”

Behind him, he heard Kam chuckle. “Your wish is my command.” 

He wanted to look behind him, to see the smile over the laughter, the glint in his eyes, to know this fucking man that meant so much to him and he didn’t know why. 

Like always, though, the mysterious Kam faded away as someone grabbed his shoulder, their fingers without a single callus but their grip much harder than the phantom noble that just touched him. “Bard! Come forward, for fuck’s sake.” Before he could even react, Rene and his sneer dragged him into a great hall, filled with other smug men doting on wine glasses and hired women. They all looked at him like the newest addition to their buffet. “Men! I have found us the greatest treat: a bard for the evening! His name is Jaskier, and he’s as talented as he is handsome.” 

Still a little shaken by his vision of Kam, Jaskier pulled his lute from his shoulder and said, “Why thank you! It’s quite the compliment before hearing my music!”

“Well, you better be good, or we’ll have to kill you!”

“Very funny.” Looking to Rene, there was no hesitation, no extra laugh. A shiver ran through Jaskier’s spine like he’d been shot with ice. “Oh my you aren’t kidding, are you?”

Very noble of him, the Count of Aldersberg didn’t respond, just moved towards his guest. Rene sat himself down by a pale red-headed young man with this devilish smirk. The kind that made Jaskier feel like he wasn’t a sexual snack; perhaps a real one. There was something vicious in his gaze that the other hungry men didn’t have. 

But Rene ruined his train of thought by bellowing like he was a slave, “Play, bard.” 

If Jaskier wasn’t in a compromised position, he would tell him to fuck off, because Geralt was the only man who would ever treat him like a slave and get away with it. In the current scenario, though, he’d settle for cursing the damned man in his mind. He’d give these disgusting creeps what they wanted, just for a little while. 

And so Jaskier played upbeat songs of flirtation and laments of love when all he could think about was the nobleman trapped somewhere in the depths of his mind. 

It was enough of a lark, doing this job for Geralt and Shashka. But now with memories of Kam on the table, Jaskier felt sick to his stomach and just wanted to leave, not play to these rich pigs. These were exactly the kind of people his Kam didn’t want to be, a single memory made that clear. 

After a dozen compositions, when his fingers started to hurt and his stomach was ready to jump through his chest since he wouldn’t let it jump up through his throat, Rene raised a hand. Jaskier stopped playing the second he saw. With that, Rene stood and directed him out of the hall. Great, didn’t get dinner with his show? The prick was right, it wasn’t too sweet a deal. 

Once alone, Rene traced Jaskier’s mouth with his thumb. Took all his willpower not to bite the thing clean off. “Dinner is about to be served, so go do something with yourself until we’re done. Perhaps then we can have some alone time.”

“I wait with baited breath.” Jaskier kept the saccharine smile on until the door behind Rene closed, and then spit off whatever disgusting residue of the man was left on him. “Fucking creepy ass noble. I get all the fun work, don’t I?”

He didn’t know why he was spouting vitriol and swears at himself, like it mattered. But when he felt so violent inside and nowhere to put it, guess having an acid tongue wasn’t the worst psychosomatic response. 

So, he just spent the next ten minutes wandering around the halls, muttering to himself about disgusting assholes and opulent dick-fuckery, like it made up for any of the turbulence inside him. 

It at least made Jaskier feel a bit better while he looked for a back door like a damned one night stand getting lost on their attempted quiet exit. 

Jaskier finally, after fumble-fucking around for long enough the maids were startting to actively avoid him, found some stairs down into a stoned, dark area. Looked like one hell of a dungeon, if he ever saw one. 

Lucky for him, the guard was taking a sweet, stupid nap in an open cell and he strode right by. There were several other damp, closed rooms, and he could have sworn he heard snivelling in one, but his eyes were on the door in the back with light streaming through the panes. 

Turning the knob, he saw sunlight again, albeit the barest slivers of a lingering sunset. 

He used the piece of glass in his pocket to signal his location and the two warriors who let him do the heavy work showed up accordingly. When they both were finally by his side, not dripping in post-traumatic memory triggers and the stench of leering, he scowled. “Get in here because I will not spend a moment more alone in this place with the lech upstairs.”

Geralt passed him and shrugged. “I thought lechs were your people.”

While Shashka did give him a more comforting pat before heading in, Jaskier couldn’t give a damn. Not when he had a Witcher to poke an accusing finger towards. “Geralt, don’t make me write a rude song about you.” Shashka’s pace quickened, starting to survey every door, knocking away, but as the door shut behind them, Geralt glanced back at him.

Those yellow eyes and raised eyebrows only made him feel all the more insecure about what happened above. Jaskier scratched his bicep and shook his head, saying, “Not this kind.” 

“You’re a big boy, I’m sure you handled it fine enough.” Shashka’s kindness and patience ended with that pat at the door it seemed. She wrapped her knuckles against another silent door and asked, “Find my parents?”

Thinking of the crying door, Jaskier cocked his head forward. “I think I passed them, but I have no key. There was a guard though-”

After giving him this bizarre, prolonged look of annoying sternness and maybe even sincerity, Geralt turned and went towards the stairs. “On it.”

“Typical.” While Geralt’s concern unsettled him, Jaskier motioned to Shashka. He’d focus on the task at hand and he could talk to Geralt about... whatever the hell that was later. “I’ll lead you to them.”  
When they got to the crying door, Shashka didn’t even hesitate; she just started pounding on the door, her fingers quivering but her fist strong. “Mother? Father?”

On the other side, there was movement and a yell, “Shashka?!”

“Mother!” Pressing herself closer to the door, like she could magic herself through, Shashka said, “I’m going to get you all out of here.”

Jaskier swallowed. All the pretense of smirks and laughter were gone, and all he could see was a desperate elf girl with tears in her eyes, trying to tear through the door that threatened to keep her family from her. 

It wasn’t just naive fear in her eyes, though; her shoulders knew like they were used to shaking, like there was a well-known stamina and endurance built up in it. 

What else had they gone though?

Before he could comfort her, the humane thing to do, or ask her, the curious asshole thing to do, Geralt showed up, bloody keys in hand. 

Shashka took the metal ring from his hand without asking, but Jaskeir was a little more perturbed. “Seriously?”

“It wasn’t as violent as it looks.”

“Oh sure, say that with those bloody fists why don’t you.”

Red-faced, Shashka was struggling with her third key when it finally opened up the door and she barked, “Will you two stop bickering like old women and help me get them out?”

Jaskier felt like he got punched. Right. “As much as I like bickering, she has a point.” 

Shashka was already funneling out two younger boys, an older woman clinging to her, another who looked almost identical to her mother. But she gestured into the room and asked, “Carry my father, will you?” 

Without thinking, a bit shaken up by... everything that he saw and dealt with in this damned manor, he nodded and walked in. But when he saw the man... Well, he was older lithe, tanner, and very much an elf. But there were unmistakably sharp cheekbones, a trimmed black beard, a long face. 

And a mangled arm, one that looked sickeningly familiar. 

It was like his unforgettable man was being slapped in his face again. His Kam. 

His own hands shaking, Jaskier reached for the man as he stood. Why couldn’t he seem to run from this memory? Why did he see him everywhere, in everyone? And how could he have forgotten him for so long if he mattered so much that just seeing someone with a faint resemblence tore through his chest like a goddamn cyclone?

But as Shashka’s father grabbed onto his forearm, he felt Geralt hovering behind him and heard him say, “Jaskier, don’t-”

Like always, Geralt’s voice broke his trance like a cure for a curse. But it wasn’t before Shashka’s father stood straight up, much taller than before, and threw Jaskier down with ease. 

In the bustle, they even shoved Geralt aside and, much to his horror, when he looked to the door Shashka just stared at them with dead eyes and shut it. 

When they heard a click of a lock, Jaskier said, “What the fuck?”

“You don’t know what they’ve been doing to people. I won’t let them ever do it again.”

Geralt was silent and stiff, but Jaskier couldn’t shake the shock. Why would she- 

“Shashka-”

Next to him, the Witcher growled. “Don’t bother, Jaskier. She’s really keeping us here because we’ll take the blame for her, right? A Witcher and the bard who flirted his way in would definitely do whatever you’re about to do. And then no one will come looking for your family.”

There was a silence on the other side of the door and Jaskier felt his heart twist. He knew Shashka was hiding something, he expected that at a point things might get more violent than planned and they had to look out for it, but he’d never expect...

That couldn’t be it, right? 

But then, echoing against the stone, Shashka said, “You both are strong. And resourceful. You’ll be fine. You can make it out of whatever prison they put you in, even this one.” Quieter, she said goodbye with, “But I need justice, the kind where I live long enough to celebrate. I deserve that much." 

And then she was gone and they were left alone.

Jaskier fucked everything up. Again. 

///

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SHASHKA NO
> 
> but in other news...
> 
> KAM YES
> 
> Ahhh I'm so excited to start sharing more of Jaskier's secrets with you folks. 
> 
> I'm curious if any of you have started figuring anything out, but I have been pretty scarce with the breadcrumbs. All we know is that Jaskier was a mage who loved a man and it (along with many other things) went very, very wrong...
> 
> Anyway, welcome back folks! I took off a week to prep up a black-log so that (during weeks I don't feel well) I won't screw over you guys. But now I'm here and so excited. 
> 
> Thanks as always for reading and extra thanks to my patrons:  
> Danyell Jones  
> Amy Connelly
> 
> Hope to see y'all next week!


	15. Of Monsters and Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Jaskier have to break out of the dungeon, only to find worse monsters than their demons when they get out

In the darkness of the dungeon cell, sitting on the floor with his legs tucked into his chest, Jaskier did everything he could to keep himself contained. And while he wished it was just him clutching his chest like a child making another mistake, he also was holding himself tight because he could feel the ripples of magic in his chest, the kind he didn’t know if he could control, and the last thing Jaskier wanted to do was to make things even worse today. 

Especially when the only person who gave a shit about him was by the door, arm leaned into the frame, practically growling. And it was his fault. 

Jaskier couldn’t even make some stupid quip about how he finally got Geralt alone or something, give a little laugh like he was just some whimsical little bard who made stupid little mistakes because he was young and unpredictable and innocent. 

If there was anything he did know, it was that he wasn’t young and he was far from innocent. 

Interrupting the haphazard slices of his razor-blade thoughts, Geralt’s frustration finally rumbled through his chest. “What the fuck was that?” He punched the stone like it could move. Jaskier didn’t need to look to know he hit a little too hard, and perhaps even his knuckles were bleeding. Hearing it was enough. “I warned you.” 

No matter how Kam was scratching at the corners of his eyes, dragging his corpse through his chest cavity, leaving his mark in every bone, Jaskier didn’t know what to say. His voice quiet, the bard kept his answer simple. He needed something to be simple. 

Nails digging into his calves, he said, “I got distracted.”

“Perfect. Very good reason to get our asses shoved in some shitty Aldersberg jail.” 

Jaskier wanted the attention off him, away from the coffin he felt like he was towing behind him everywhere he went. Prickled, afraid, the bard turned the accusation on Geralt. “Oh, fuck off. You didn’t have to lunge in here with me. You made a poor decision, too.” But that didn’t feel right, either. Instead, Jaskier just felt even smaller. Shaking his head, he went back on his word. “I’m sorry, I guess I underestimated Shashka’s effect on me.”

There was a silence then, one empty of even the radiating, angry energy Geralt always had rolling off him. A dark, morbid part of Jaskier hoped this was the moment he became too much for Geralt. That maybe the Witcher would leave him here. 

Because no matter how much he loved to be Jaskier, and he loved to sing and make people smile and use his energy to light people up instead of burn them, that didn’t make up for the parade of mistakes and victims he left behind him. And considering the fact he felt sick enough to hate himself for it without knowing all the facts, how would he feel if he ever did know the men that preceded Jaskier and Mlecz?

When Geralt spoke, though, it was worse than he could ever imagine. “There’s more to you than getting lost up a pretty skirt. So explain what the fuck that was.” The Witcher paused before adding, “I saw the way you looked at her father.”

Pressing his cheek into his knee, Jaskier could feel the tired, exhausted cracks form in his armor. After all, what did it matter if Geralt found out? The bard admitted, “He looked like someone.”

“Who?”

Biting his nail, a habit old and forgotten like an ancient spell he tried to eat away all that was stopping him from talking. He had to, now. Jaskier sighed, looked up into those yellow eyes, and said, “His name was Kam.” But when Geralt looked the barest bit sympathetic, with those gentler eyes he used for millers with dead daughters, Jaskier couldn’t keep looking. “Or at least, that’s as much as I remember.”

“As much as you remember? That isn’t enough, Jaskier.”

“It’s all I have.” With shaky legs, Jaskier leaned on the wall to stand. How pathetic. He was so happy to be weak and jovial when it suited him, but now that it was real... 

Jaskier could barely keep eye contact with Geralt. He stepped towards his Witcher, but he daren’t look up. “There are... gaps in my memory. Ever since I met you, memories of him, of Kam, have been coming back. And I don’t remember who he is exactly, but I know something awful happened to him and I...” Staring down at his empty hand, where he was sure Kam once put his own, Jaskier felt it all crashing down on him, making his loss loud and real and worse. Keeping his voice strong, he clenched his fist and admitted, “And I loved him. It’s a little fucking distracting, I’m sorry.”

Geralt’s boots came into view, pointing straight at Jaskier’s bowed head. If he didn’t know better, he thought Geralt’s hand, hanging to his left, unfurled and twitched forward for a moment before settling still. “When has this happened before?”

“A lot of times.” Jaskier shook his head, picturing Kam’s mangled corpse over and over and over- “It catches me by surprise, and I don’t react as I should. But how should I react to seeing the dead face of a man I once loved but managed to forget? I certainly don’t fucking know.” 

“Let’s get us out.”

Stunned, Jaskier’s head finally looked up, but Geralt was turned back towards the door and he wasn’t quite frowning, but had this stern seriousness to him. He couldn’t read it one fucking bit, which was his least favorite version of Witcher. 

“You’re not going to say anything? Are you that mad at me?”

“No.” Geralt shook the knob and groaned, but then his hands fell away and he just stared at it. “Losing people is hard. Your situation sounds particularly difficult.” 

“Oh.”

“I don’t understand, but it can’t be easy.” Finally, Geralt turned towards him and those yellow eyes didn’t pity him, coddle him, burn him. Instead, he just saw him. The Witcher shrugged and asked, “Now, are you going to help me fucking break down this door?”

“Absolutely.”

It wasn’t exactly professional, but Geralt used one of his Witcher spells (Igni) to light a small flame on the door. Then, they waited for the wood to be weak, bowing, and broke straight through.

The sight on the other side wasn’t something they’d wanted to see, though. At least, Jaskier had hoped wasn’t what would happen. 

Only a few steps from the locked door was the dungeon guard, his throat slashed open. Geralt said, “I didn’t-”

But Jaskier shook his head. “I know. “ And he wondered where soft kisses and leather boots fit in this tableau of bloodshed. 

Unfortunately, he was coming to realize, they didn’t. 

Together, they climbed the stairs and walked through the halls, only to find more blood and and corpses, not strewn out of tragic necessity, but each purposefully found and cut and made to suffer. 

Jaskier only had a limited knowledge of anatomy, but he knew the spots you picked to make someone collapse and bleed out. Those were the only ones Shashka used. 

And to think, they brought her here to slaughter them. He felt fucking sick. Despite his wavering stomach, though, they followed the trail to the great hall he left behind, to the lecherous men he never wanted to see again. 

The statement was still true. He didn’t even want to see them dead. 

When they walked into the room, though, not only were they dead, but the suspicious red-haired man was gone and all that was left was Shashka, her cowering family, and a different hollow-cheeked, growling vampire with golden hair.

He’d never seen him like this, fangs bared and soft black eyes turned into threats. 

With an unsteady voice, Jaskier asked, “Darien?”

The vampire barely blinked, focused in on his long nails and the elf trying not to cower before him, and said,“I don’t know where you came from, but fuck off Mlecz. This isn’t about you. It’s about her.”

Darien had his hand punched into the stone, another bracing the wall a foot to the left. And in between them was Shashka, untouched, but unable to move. Considering a vampire just punched through limestone next to her, he couldn’t blame her. 

But it wasn’t like she knew Darien like he did; there was a reason the vampire didn’t have a hand on her, despite the hole in the wall. Darien was yelling, but Jaskier didn’t miss the tears tearing themselves from his black eyes. “What have you done? If you had only waited an hour...” The vampire shook his head, a few golden strands falling from his messy braid, and his clenched fist melted in a flat palm, like he was barely able to hold himself up. “If you waited an hour, I could have saved everyone.”

“Rene was a monster!”

Flicking his black eyes up, Darien bared his teeth. “No, you selfish, puny mortal. He was a greedy, unpleasant, but otherwise fine man being manipulated by one. But now the monster’s run off and it’s your fault. If I could kill you-” He lifted his hand, slow and deliberate, and Geralt stepped forward, starting to pull out his sword. But Jaskier grabbed the Witcher’s arm, stopped him short. Those yellow eyes didn’t look very pleased. Jaskier knew things he didn’t though. 

As if on cue, Darien’s fangs recoiled, his arm fell, and he went back to leaning into the wall like it was all he had left. His sigh was beleaguered and showed so much more of a man than a frustrated hunter. “But I can’t.”

“Darien, let her go.”

Darien shook his head, like he was trying to will himself to take her life, to become a person he wasn’t. “She let him get away. More people are going to die.” 

“I know. But hurting her doesn’t make it better. And I also know you know that already.” 

The scared little mouse in between Darien’s arms finally found her fire again, at the worst possible time. Practically spitting at the vampire, she said, “They deserved to burn.”

The bard silenced any affection he had for her and narrowed his eyes at her. “Shashka, will you just shut the fuck up? You’ve done enough.”

That’s when Darien let both his arms fall away from her and he stepped back. Pointing towards the hall, he told her, “You get your family out of here, and pray we never cross paths again.” 

As she wasn’t a total idiot, Shashka moved out of his grasp the second she could. However, like the internal, revenge-on-impulse demon she had shown herself to be, she clenched her fists and said in a very defiant manner, “I’m not sorry about what I’ve done.”

The Witcher next to him growled, so low that Jaskier could almost feel it reverberate through his chest. “I know. That’s the worst part.” 

Shashka flicked her glare to Geralt, all petulant, but when no one responded to her little tantrum, she just took her mother’s hand and stomped out of the room, her family looking more and more terrified by the moment. 

Even when looking at Shashka’s hand in theirs. 

He couldn’t blame them. The daughter they found probably wasn’t much like the one they left. 

When the echo of mortal footsteps silenced down the hall, Darien’s reluctant mercy turned into these visceral narrowed eyes towards Jaskier. The bard had never seen him look so close to true rage. 

In a weird way, it broke his heart. He didn’t love helping break a gentle man. Darien stepped forward, almost close enough to crush Jaskier’s toes. “Why the fuck are you and your Witcher here, Mlecz?”

“We were here to help her save her family. We didn’t know-”

Darien snarled, but was trying to take deep breaths to stave off the vampiric rage. His black eyes were cooling and his cheekbones were filling out again. “So it’s your fault, too. You helped this happen.”

“We didn’t-” Jaskier stopped, catching sight of how many times she cut Rene of Aldersberg open. He couldn’t defend that. But he did know he didn’t have to sit here groveling to a man who nearly punched through a woman’s face. Crossing his arms, he changed tactics. “Well, why the fuck were YOU here?”

“Ariel was here. He could’ve been stopped.” Darien sucked in one, final long breath and he looked like the vampire Jaskier once knew. But he really hoped he was starting to look different from the Mlecz that Darien used to know. The way he was staring at him right now, displeased and untrusting, wasn’t encouraging. And he couldn’t even blame him when he was pretty sure that the fox-like man, licking his lips during his performances, is exactly who slipped through Darien’s fingers. 

The vampire sighed and explained, “I tracked him all around Aldersberg and finally figured out where he was hiding and then your elf tipped him off by going on a rampage, the kind where he could easily sneak out the back door and leave her to the massacre. He was gone before I could even smell him, and gods know all this blood is completely throwing off my senses.” 

Geralt was on a completely different page, not noticing the weird glances and assessments between Jaskier and Darien. He just asked, “Why are you after a vampire you told us not to find?” 

While Darien looked to Geralt, met his eyes, he reserved a flicker of sadness for his glance towards Jaskier. Then his black gaze fell, miles away from the murderous man they walked in on. Instead, Darien just looked... lost. “At first, I came to get justice for Emily. But the more I searched for him, I learned more than I wanted to know. I was wrong, back in Vergen. He didn’t happen upon me and torture me for passing fun. He and his mother are up to something. The signs of vampire influence are riddled throughout the region. What happened in Gulet looks harmless by comparison. And knowing Ursa, it’s not exactly some well-intentioned charity project. I can’t face her, but I thought if I could get to Ariel...” Darien trailed off and brushed away some dust from his fingertips, only to start staring at the empty spaces between them. “Yet now I have no clue where he’s gone.” Sighing, the vampire looked up at them and said, “I just want to stop letting them hurt people.”

Fuck. Even when he was breaking apart, Darien had to be so vulnerable and honest, didn’t he?

For all his conflict with Darien, Jaskier had to respect him for that. In so many ways, he wished he could be more like him. Why else would he choose a bard persona who seemed like a damned open book?

Seeing Darien look so melancholic, Jaskier wanted to hold his hand, comfort him, but he knew that kind of affection and friendliness was unwelcome. He settled for saying what he could: “I’m sorry.”

“Not nearly sorry enough.” 

The bite to his words didn’t make Jaskier comfortable, so he made sure to give Darien the warning he wished he gave himself a century ago, to whichever of his past selves threw the first stone. “You can’t kill him, Darien. It’s not who you are.” 

Darien’s bemused look was a surprise. “I know I can’t. But I have to do something. All I can hope is that he didn’t fly back off to mummy dearest. Because then more than my prayers are fucked.” The vampire rolled his shoulders and walked towards the window with purpose, but before he hopped out, he stopped and looked back at them. “You should be afraid, y’know. Because a vampire meddling in human affairs is never good.” 

With a new echo of footsteps coming down the hall, Geralt said, “We need to go. Someone will come.” 

“And with that, I’ll take my leave, as well.” 

“Darien, wait.” Jaskier reached out to Darien, if only with a gesture. “You could come with us. It seems we’re destined to keep crossing paths, and to keep running into these vampires. We could help each other.” 

“Cute sales pitch, Mlecz, but it’s not enough. You and your Witcher bring mayhem, and dealing with Ariel is delicate.” Darien shook his head, looking out to the dusky moon. “I know you mean well. In your own twisted way you always have. But I let him kill Emily. I have to stop him.”

“Be careful. Don’t be too much of a kind-hearted idiot.”

“Sad that those are the kindest parting words you’ve ever had for me.” And with that, Darien snorted and let Jaskier look into his black eyes, one last time. He knew Darien had no interest in him, but as the only good person who remembered someone he used to be, Jaskier almost felt desperate to prove he was someone new, different. But that didn’t seem to be enough, not for Darien’s wistful gaze. “Goodbye, Mlecz.”

And he was gone. 

Jaskier didn’t really have the time to talk to Geralt in the moment, his Witcher just dragged them out of the castle and pulled them into the nearby bushes. When they couldn’t hear anyone anymore, Jaskier kept his voice quiet but said, guilt pounding through his head like a pack of giants, “I’m sorry, Geralt. I convinced you to do this. I didn’t realize- I didn’t know she’d kill all those people like that. I trusted a monster. I slept with one. Well, multiple, to be honest.” Giving a bitter, insincere laugh, jaskier asked, “What the fuck does that make me?”

“A bard. Jaskier. You.”

Scoffing, the bard didn’t believe him. He couldn’t. After all this time, nothing was that simple... Could it be? “How can you say that when all we seem to find are facsimiles of people hiding monstrosities inside them?” 

“People aren’t born monsters. The world creates them.”

“Geralt-” Jaskier reached for the Witcher’s arm, begging him to see the implications he was trying to say, to ward him away from the monster who hurt Darien, burned others, killed Kam. 

But Geralt just shook his head and kept his hands to himself, saying, “There are good people. There just aren’t many, not in a world of monsters." After another scan of their surroundings, the Witcher grabbed Jaskier by his collar and pulled him even closer in the bushes, hiding them from the guards walking by. “And definitely don’t forget that you’re travelling with one.” 

While Jaskier wanted to argue, he didn’t know what to say over the town mob saying they should “burn the damned Witcher alive, like all his kind deserved.”

All he managed was to stay by Geralt’s side until they were gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHH We talked about Kam and DARIEN'S BACK. I couldn't help but bring back the sweetest vampire alive. 
> 
> In other news, this upcoming Wednesday (5/27/20) I will be starting Witcher Wednesdays on Twitch, where I will be playing The Witcher 3 for the first time ever! I love storytelling commentary and also sing very random songs during fights. Find me on Twitch!
> 
> (Twitch: Twitch.tv/thespacebard)
> 
> I also will be doing a Mass Effect stream tonight starting at 7 pm Eastern US time. 
> 
> Thank you as always for reading and double thanks to my patrons:   
> Danyell Jones  
> Amy Connolly 
> 
> So if you're interested, please check my streams out. If not, I'll see you next week!


	16. The Language of Assholes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier tries to take Geralt out on an enjoyable night, but they make a bigger enemy than any friends

When Jaskier woke the next morning, he was in an Aldersberg inn after sloshing through mud all evening. They had to take some... creative routes to get past the vindictive guards. And when ordering their room, Jaskier had to take the lead and Geralt had to pull a hood over his face and play mute manservant again.

Safe to say, the Witcher wasn’t too pleased about that. 

Despite all his grumbling and dissatisfaction, Geralt let Jaskier bathe first and the bard left this plane the second he crashed down into his pillow.

But now, in the morning light, he realized Geralt was in worse shape than he expected. Not because he was hurt or anything, but the damned man was still in the bathroom, bare as the day he was born (probably), and passed out in the destitute waters. 

Apparently, the soothing bath calmed him down a little too much. 

If Geralt didn’t try to cleave his head off with his teeth, they really needed to chat about how much the guy needed a goddamn nap. 

No matter how much his helpless brain would love to ogle the view, he had better plans. After all, Jaskier dragged this man through hell and he wanted to do something nice and thoughtful for him. Particularly the kind of thing Geralt would never do for himself.

But first, he had to wake him up. 

Jaskier sighed, placing his hand on the Witcher’s shoulder. He chose to ignore all the tense muscles collected there, and instead just gave the man a light shove. “Geralt.”

“The fuck-” Geralt’s surprised thrashing splashed water all over, but that only made the Witcher’s frown deeper. “It’s cold.”

No shit. 

At Geralt acting like a little child discovering something unpleasant for the first time, Jaskier snorted. But the Witcher did not seem to appreciate that and actually growled. Wow, apparently someone didn’t know how to laugh at themselves. “Don’t growl at me. You’re the one who closed your eyes in a bucket of water and didn’t wake up until it was chillier than your demeanor.” 

Despite the angry aura radiating from the thing in the bathtub, which completely ruined any appeal that his powerful physique had, Jaskier tossed him a towel. 

Geralt nodded towards him, and stood up shamelessly. 

Though Jaskier normally never felt any shame himself, when those legs stepped out of the tub...

Well, he remembered he had other things to talk about as well and it was just very coincidental that he needed to walk over and open his bag and not look at Geralt while doing it. 

Blurting out the words, Jaskier said, “We need a fucking win.” He could hear Geralt toweling himself off as he rummaged through his bag. With a swallow, sternly internalizing his need to calm himself the fuck down, he added, “That or a fucking nap, but that sounds just tragic and boring at this point.”

Only using a single hand to hold up his towel (which, in the bard’s humble opinion, was not enough to avoid any lingering thoughts or annoying fantasies), Geralt said, “I don’t like where this is going.”

That made two of them, because his big dumb thumb was definitely slipping on holding up that towel. And of all things, he did not need that. 

If he learned anything from his old nights with Darien, making dumb choices with attractive men who happened to be decent human beings just to stuff up the holes in your own chest don’t tend to go well. 

Jaskier bit the tip of his thumb and gestured to his bag. Of course, and didn’t look directly at anything handsome on Geralt.

If that meant Jaskier could only stare at his sort of weird ears, so be it. 

“C’mon. I have some hair dye-”

The Witcher groaned. “I hate where this is going.”

He filled his head with wholesome thoughts, the kind that revolved around his master plan here instead of whatever the hell was going on below Geralt’s waist. “Well you’ll hate it less knowing I want to do this because you were right. There are monsters and men and everything in between. But sometimes it’s nice to remember there are good ones out there, too.”

“I have you, don’t I?”

Taken aback, Jaskier stopped his rummaging, grabbing his materials. No matter how cheesy the sentiment was, and even if the Witcher surely didn’t mean it so kindly (after all, the man had to know he was a piss poor excuse for a good man), the bard felt his heart grow two sizes.

Which was bullshit because he told his heart to fuck off every time it started tripping over Kam trauma. It was hardly allowed to show its ugly face now. 

All he could do was shake his head. “How sweet, Geralt, really. Warms my twisted little heart. But trust me...” He pulled the final vials of dyes, brushes, and the like out of his small bag. “I’m not enough.”

When Jaskier turned around, Geralt had luckily pulled on some trousers and put that friendship ruining physique away behind an ugly, ratty shirt. Good. The Witcher raised an eyebrow, but didn’t flinch when he came closer. “You’re just going to annoy me if I don’t say yes, aren’t you?”

Jaskier smirked and said, “You know me so well.”

“Fine.” 

Nothing in his life had ever really surprised him, that is, until Geralt said that. “Really?”

“Ask that again and I won’t go anywhere or do anything with you.” 

Geralt sat down and Jaskier said, “My lips are sealed.” Taking a gentle step forward, Jaskier pulled the Witcher’s hair into his hands. It would be embarrassing to admit how much he liked the white locks, a moon-dipped beacon in any crowd, but he knew not everyone saw celestial beauty in mutants. He sighed and babbled about something else, anything else, really. “Well, at least about that. But about the hair dye, we should get it going if we want to make it to the tavern by evening. And I have to go find that old makeup of mine and that hat... I’m sure I have an eye glamour or two from a witch, I thought they were quite fun when I was just starting out-”

Those yellow eyes were staring at his own big hands when Geralt said, “So you want a night where the Witcher isn’t a problem.”

The way his heart fell through his chest, screaming, echoed in Jaskier’s head in a way he didn’t expect nor like. 

But it seemed many things about Geralt were helplessly unpredictable, just like the way the Witcher was trying to hide how vulnerable he felt with stiff shoulders, an angry brow, and a scowl that could make a baby cry. 

If only he thought to cover up those trembling of his fingers, too. 

Trying to stay casual, Jaskier said, “What? No. I want a night where people treat you poorly for the asshole you are, nothing to do with the eyes or hair or whatever other excuses.” 

His fingers stopped shaking. “... Hmm.”

“Green or brown?” Geralt raised an eyebrow, looking over his shoulder at Jaskier. Bottling up the adorable expression Geralt gave him could net him a fortune, but if he said that aloud the Witcher might chop his tongue in two. Not wanting to be anymore of a snake than he already was, the bard gestured to the glamour potions in his hands, one a grassy green and the other a soft tree bark brown. “I got one of every color. I was curious.”

Geralt grunted, but said, “Green.”

“So it shall be.” For all his grumbling, Geralt was good to work with. Whenever Jaskier needed to really dig into his hair, run the black dye through, he just tipped his head back and let it happen. At first it was exhilarating, but eventually it almost made him sick to his stomach. 

Why did he trust him? If he knew what was good for him, he’d be running away, screaming.

But what if instead he just focused on getting those last rebel strands of white into black? That, or just give Geralt the salt and pepper look his age deserved.

Yeah, that sounded about right for the old man of a Witcher. 

Though, he didn’t have a single gray hair, but to be honest who would expect him not to dye his hair perfect in that case? That is, unless he looked helplessly handsome with some gray mixed in.

Maybe later in his Jaskier years he’d have to try that. 

After he washed out the excess dye, he toweled Geralt’s hair until it was fluffy and sat him up straight on a stool. Jet-black hair and entrancing viridium eyes, Jaskier swallowed down every thought he shouldn’t have. “Huh. It suits you.”

The Witcher frowned and grunted, like the most handsome barbarian he’d ever met. 

If he just met a man looking like this in a tavern-

Well, his thoughts didn’t need to go there, especially when he didn’t want Geralt to feel worse about yellow eyes and ivory hair. Especially when he liked them so much. 

Coughing, he said, “What an articulate response.” Jaskier tucked his hand under his Witcher’s chin, scanning every inch. Who knew how alien typical humanity would make his friend look. But what really caught him were those eyes, the kind that pierced right through a person. At least that didn’t change, from yellow to green. “Your eyes look like... Like that time I poured blue potion into my piss to see what would happen. It was a beautiful.” 

Geralt narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms. 

Okay, perhaps he wasn’t as eloquent as he liked on the spot. 

Turning away from his own failed compliment, Jaskier reached down into his bag and grabbed a relic from another time, when he was just starting out as a bard. He was trying to find a way to distinguish himself, to look unique and bold. Just like the first stage name, Dandelion, he’d abandoned the gaudy purple and blue hat.

Granted, it looked pretty damn fabulous right now. 

Jaskier planted it on his head and looked back at Geralt, who was dressing himself in classic black. 

“How’s the hat look? Too much?”

When Geralt looked at him, he frowned. “Definitely too much.”

“Perfect.” With their looks settled, Geralt still intimidating but less... obviously so, and Jaskier a more flamboyant man, Jaskier gestured them to the door. It was time to take their new looks on the town and hope for a nicer time amongst humans than the past few encounters. Considering it was a short walk to the local tavern, and the town didn’t seem any shittier than the next one, it had to go well enough.

As they walked the streets of Aldersberg, Jaskier said, “Now, I know I won’t be the bard playing tonight, but don’t be too heartbroken.”

“I’ll survive.”

“I won’t blame you if you weeped the second we entered.”

“I won’t.”

“Fine, bottle all those feelings up. I’ll be here when you burst.” 

Geralt was the one to open the door, and the second he did they were threatened by the most boring song Jaskier had ever heard in his entire life. But what he cared more about than the drab music was the way Geralt looked for someone scowling at him, a barren side of the bar to stay safe in, but barely anyone even blinked at him. He wondered if Geralt ever knew what it was like to walk into a room unnoticed. 

But then the damned bard started playing an annoying song and that made the Witcher next to him bristle back up and growl a little. 

What a punk ass bitch, ruining the momentary peace. 

Peering, Jaskier tried to identify if he knew the bard. There were quite a few of them, sure, but sometimes he met a friendly face. And he really didn’t feel like offending someone he might not hate. 

Oh, good. The man was a glossy, black-haired with a far-too manicured mustache. He could roast the shit out of him. 

In his best whisper, Jaskier leaned over to the Witcher. “You said it! This man can play a tune perfectly, but without a single fleck of creativity. It’s like he put a damned music spell on his lute.” His scan of the tavern had more positive results, though, when Jaskier’s eyes fell on a nearby table of grimy men pouring their brains onto the table with a deck of cards. “Ooh! Gwent!”

The witcher raised a black eyebrow, something Jaskier wasn’t quite accustomed to. “What’s that?”

“Oh my sweet socially inept man. It’s the favorite card game of every tavern.” Jaskier chuckled. “You really don’t pay attention to what people are doing, do you? Lucky me that you even noticed me singing when we met.”

Geralt grumbled, but Jaskier could tell, the way his eyes kept following the cards, that the stubborn old man was interested. And that there was this ease to him, getting to watch and no one giving a damn. 

So when the next hand began, Jaskier started talking. “Watch them closely and I’ll tell you the rules. This is how you play-”

The Witcher stayed close, keeping his ear by Jaskier’s hushed teachings. Lessons didn’t last long, though. Within a hand or two of observation, Geralt took Jaskier’s personal deck and bought himself into a round. Jaskier would be offended if this wasn’t the most social initiative he’d ever seen in the man. 

And when he beat the town champion in his first round, Geralt flashed the first wide, wild smile Jaskier had ever seen on him. The kind no amount of grump can stifle. 

He could watch him play Gwent all night. Which was good, considering Geralt showed no sign of stopping. 

For a good half hour or so, it was like he got to see the Witcher experience fun for the first time. The kind of fun that wasn’t expected of him, like drinking or fighting, or secret, scandalous sex. 

No, just like any other man he was a grinning idiot having fun destroying the pride of other men with flimsy pieces of paper. 

But of course the milquetoast bard of the evening had to come over and ruin everything. After one of his more languid songs, he walked up behind Geralt and tapped on his shoulder, this sickly sweet, candy-covered-in-venom grin on his face. Everything he wore was just as sickening, up close. Fashion from last season, prim as if it was just bought off the mannequin, and he had this disgusting paisley silk scarf wrapped ever so lightly around his shoulders. Oh, he fucking hated him right then and there. Even moreso when Geralt’s smile fell from his face. “Hello man meat, I appreciate you enjoying your small giggle session and showing off those little playing cards to everyone, but I would prefer a bit less disruption. I’m giving a performance.”

The stranger across from Geralt frowned and said, “We’re just playing Gwent.”

“And I’m just doing my job. Is anyone paying you to do that drivel?”

The longer Geralt’s face fell, the more he looked like he was either going to turn full Witcher or fuck off, and in turn the more Jaskier felt his blood boil. When Geralt stood and spoke, he was already right by his side. “Actually-”

Interrupting Geralt, Jaskier slapped on his own bardic bitch smile and said, “Hello! Nice to have you come over, sir...?”

“Marx. Valdo Marx.”

“Well that’s a dumb name. You should change it.” At his words, Geralt’s eyes widened. But Jaskier was versed in the language of assholes, and he was going to cover this one. “But besides your terrible stage name, think about it, Valdy-boy: you’re getting paid either way, so why not stick a damn fork in it and accept everyone here is far more interested in the cards than your mediocre music? You get an easy paycheck and we actually enjoy our evening. Wins all around, isn’t it?”

“Mediocre music? How dare you! I’ll let you know that I’m-”

Over his rage, Jaskier laughed the loudest, most obnoxious way he could think of. It sounded a bit like a donkey’s bray mixed with a troll chuckle. “Wow! I don’t think you even fathom how much I do not fucking care.” Grabbing a drink off a nearby barmaid’s tray (as seemed tradition), Jaskier spilled it all over Valdo’s shirt, which was trying so much harder than its owner. “Whoops! Guess you’ll have to take a little break and clean that off.”

Valdo lunged towards him. “You little bitch-”

However, sir Marx definitely wasn’t prepared for Jaskier to place his hand on Valdo’s face, trapping him three feet away, swinging his arms like a wild idiot. Granted, he was one, wasn’t he? “What, you wanna pretend you’re more important than the patrons here, just because you have a lute? Because trust me, you unseasoned ass, there’s not enough salt in the entire continent to make your bland tunes tasteful. If they enjoy Gwent more than you, that’s your problem.” Jaskier released and Valdo was practically foaming from the mouth. 

“You motherfucking-”

Geralt grabbed Jaskier’s shoulder. “We’re going.”

“What? But I was just-”

His eyes, green and soft as they were, couldn’t mask the seriousness behind them. “Jaskier. We’re. Going.” 

“Fine.” Crossing his arms and glaring at Valdo while he walked by, though, Jaskier said, “But you better believe this isn’t over, you self-inflated waste of strings.” 

All the way back to their room, Geralt was dead silent and Jaskier didn’t like it. He was doing him a favor, and that bard deserved a fucking reality check. Why did Geralt have to act so damn cross about it? A few more scathing blows and Valdo would have left out of sheer embarrassment and they might’ve gotten a few free drinks for the show. 

When Geralt shut the door behind them, he pressed his back against it like he was a much older, tired man. “Why did you do that?”

Jaskier threw out his arms and said, “Because he was being an asshole to you. Why else?”

“I could’ve handled it.”

“You always handle it. I wanted you to have a nice evening where you could feel like the world doesn’t hate you. And I wasn’t going to let some musical wannabe with his dick twisted in a knot fuck that up.” Shaking his head, Jaskier didn’t like the way it settled in his mouth. Especially since his own behavior was the reason they left. “But I suppose I fucked it up for you anyway.” 

For a prolonged minute or two, Geralt was silent. But then he opened his mouth and said such a surprising thing that Jaskier half thought he was hallucinating. “It was good.” 

“What?”

“The night. Was nice.” Geralt rolled his shoulders and tugged at his hair, with no affection for the foreign color. “I like Gwent.”

While Jaskier’s purpose was just that, getting Geralt to enjoy something, it didn’t make him feel better about being scolded. “That’s good? Congratulations?” 

“I’m not-” Geralt put his hands before him like trying to explain a goddamn battle plan. He looked absurd. Why did he feel like he was about to get a lecture? The damned man might as well ignore him; that was easier that this ramshackle shitshow. Hell, Jaskier would probably do a better job of scolding himself. He certainly had decades of material. 

Geralt furrowed his brow and said, “You’re annoying. And irritating. And make horrible decisions. But-”

“We could stop there, I’m not really in the mood.”

“Let me finish.” The Witcher’s voice cracked like a whip, commanded the air between them like a spell. With their eyes locked, fresh lilypad green slowly fading back to daffodil, Jaskier felt as if he was in a field full of them, soft petals on softer skin, a place no one else would find a Witcher. 

But perhaps there was more daffodil in the man than anyone had ever given him credit. Especially one bard who stood before him, silenced. 

Straining out the words, his throat taut with every syllable, Geralt spoke: “But you’re good. At least, to me.” Before Jaskier could melt into a tragic little puddle, Geralt scowled. “Now don’t make a big deal out of it or I’m gagging you until tomorrow.”

“Is that a threat or a promise?”

“That’s it, out.”

As the Witcher stepped towards him threateningly, Jaskier took his own step forward and tucked his hands around Geralt’s sides, pulling him close. Maybe this would get him thrown out, but for tonight, it was worth it. “You’re good to me, too. More than I deserve. Thank you for bringing me with you.” And just as Geralt started tensing up in a way that Jaskier was pretty sure meant he was going to get tossed somewhere, he let go and moved to blow out the light by his bed. 

He couldn’t look at him, not tonight, not when he made a fool out of himself and he might even have a blush to his cheeks. It was one more thing Geralt could never know. “Goodnight, Geralt.”

Before he flopped himself down in his bed and hoped the weird thump in his chest was just some indigestion or a witch’s curse (either could come with the shitty tavern scraps he ate), he heard Geralt place something on his bedside table. The Witcher gave a small, “Hmm,” but then disappeared into the bathroom.

Only once the door shut behind him did Jaskier dare to turn around, but he was more than surprised to see a visual insult of a paisley scarf on the table. 

With a stupid smile on his face, Jaskier turned over and went to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHH Valdo Marx is 10/10 for bonding
> 
> This chapter also sees a shift in their dynamic that maybe cause some trouble
> 
> Hope y'all enjoyed :)
> 
> Thanks for reading, and sugary sweet extra thanks to my patrons:
> 
> Danyell Jones  
> Amy Connolly
> 
> See you next week! That or see you on Twitch :) I stream Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays (twitch.tv/thespacebard)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a first chapter; I like it and I hope y'all enjoy it, too. 
> 
> I do other fics, some creative writing, and the like. I also will be doing Twitch streams in the future. If you want to learn more about supporting my creative endeavors, check out these sites:
> 
> Tumblr: CreativelyDisordered  
> Twitter: (At)Steph_Marceau
> 
> If you can contribute, I offer one-shots, cameos, early access, a Discord, and other cool stuff. If not, just keep enjoying the story!
> 
> Thanks as always to my lovely patrons:  
> Danyell Jones  
> Amy Connolly


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